


Fire, Smoke, and Magic: A Dragon Age 2 Retelling - Act 2

by TCRegan



Series: Fire, Smoke, and Magic [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Act 2 of Fire, Smoke, and Magic.</p>
<p>A retelling of Dragon Age 2 from the point of view of Anders. Complies mostly with the overarching story, though plays fast and loose with the canon in parts, especially with Hawke's back story. Will be completed in three acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He kept his head low, sitting in the back of the tavern. Not the Hanged Man, just another nameless hole in the wall in Lowtown. The Hanged Man was too popular, and too many people knew his face. He pulled his hood over his eyes, nursing a watered down ale in a dirty mug. It didn't matter; he wasn't truly drinking it. The door opened, letting a sliver of light into the dusty room. The bartender didn't look up, sitting on his stool, filthy boots propped on the bar as he continued to pick at his nails with a knife. The woman who entered wasn't looking for drink, though. She let the door clatter shut behind her and moved to sit across from Anders.

"Have you heard news?" Anders asked, staring down at his mug. The brown liquid swirled as he tilted it slightly.

"Two more new Tranquils," she said quietly. 

The years hadn't been kind to Selby. She was working just as hard, if not harder than he had been. While he kept up with his clinic duties, he found himself with less free time. His head ached with the knowledge of what was happening in the Gallows, with the increase of mages being shipped in from other Circles because they were 'unruly' and needed a firmer hand. And Kirkwall, under Knight-Commander Meredith, had become that firm hand. And now the number of mages being made tranquil had increased to an alarmingly high amount.

"Two?"

"Today," Selby said. "And another two just days ago."

Anders swore quietly. "We need to accelerate our plans."

Bringing mages out of the Circle wasn't enough anymore. They needed to infiltrate the Gallows. Get in somehow and destroy it from the inside. But he wasn't sure how to do it.

"Our friend inside has to take a step back," she said, and though she didn't use his name, Anders knew she meant Thrask.

"Why?"

"His last letter indicated he'd been reprimanded. Stepping on a lieutenant's toes."

"Who?"

Selby's hands twisted atop the table and she fidgeted. It was the first time since meeting her three years ago that Anders had seen her unnerved. Apprehension churned in his stomach along with the watery beer. 

"Who?" he asked again, more insistent.

"Alrik."

"Bloody flames."

Ser Otto Alrik was a name that had come up more and more in their own reports. He'd been the one to perform the ritual on Karl, Anders learned. _Thekla, Karl_ was just another name on a very long list that Thrask had given him as evidence against Alrik. He learned through coded messages passed to him from Norah about how vicious Alrik could be, about how he'd gotten tossed in a holding cell for – of all things – beating a _Tranquil_ nearly to death. Anders couldn't even take solace in the fact that Alrik had gotten a light slap on the wrist for that transgression, not when the accounts of his brutality stretched on, containing far worse.

_"Sometimes he comes into my room at night."_

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. He spoke briefly with Alain the last time he was in the Gallows – on an errand with Hawke in the late evening. He needed to speak with a Templar called Emeric as a favor to Aveline. Anders asked Alain how he was faring.

_"His eyes… they're so creepy. And I don't want to be made Tranquil."_

He sent a letter to Thrask, but his offer to help Alain escape was denied. The Circle was looking too closely at the Starkhaven apostates. Despite their efforts years ago, most of them had been rounded up and collected. Grace did nothing but glare at him and Hawke, and he hadn't bothered approaching her.

"There's more. The rumor that we were following up on, it's true."

Anders licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "You can't mean-"

"It's true. There's word he went to the Divine."

He swallowed back the rising nausea. Alrik's plan – The Tranquil Solution, as it was known – called for using the Rite of Tranquility on every mage in the Free Marches over the next three years, and the rest of Thedas over the next ten. If Alrik had sent his plan to the Divine in Orlais and she agreed to it, it was only a matter of time before every mage was turned into a soulless puppet of the Templar order.

"We have to stop him," Anders said, clutching his mug now so tightly that his fingers ached, knuckles turning white. "We have to kill him."

"Keep your voice down," Selby hissed, tossing a look around.

But the bartender and the scant handful of patrons hadn't noticed.

"But you agree," Anders continued, lowering his voice.

"Love, if I could, I would see every one of those blighters blasted to bits, heads on spikes outside the Gallows walls."

Anders couldn't quite bring himself to smile, though Selby's words felt like a hot bowl of soup on a cold winter's day. Justice churned inside him, aching to bring her wish to fruition. "If it were possible," he whispered, and Selby leaned in closer. "If I could get him alone…"

"You'd be risking yourself. And maybe the whole underground. No. There are things that are more important here that involve keeping you alive."

She wasn't his mother, wasn't his employer. She was just a friend, a close associate. He didn't need to follow her rules. He was just as involved as she was, taking just as much initiative. But they worked together, the triumvirate of the underground. But their third was currently indisposed.

"When will our partner be available again?" Anders asked.

Selby frowned and leaned forward further. "He's got two weeks. Not allowed to leave the barracks. Maker only knows what they're doing to him."

"Sounds like more than just a reprimand," Anders commented. He didn't want to know what was happening to Thrask. Alrik had proven he was a sadist already, that he would hurt any mage, any Tranquil with even the slightest provocation.

"We lay low for now."

Justice howled with indignance inside his brain and he closed his eyes. _No_ , he thought. _Not here. Not now._

"For how long?"

"Until we're sure it's safe. If Alrik suspects something is up, well. Our friend won't talk, even if he's tortured. But there is a damn good possibility that we could lose him."

Anders was the last person to cry over a dead Templar. But a dead friend, which is something he considered Thrask to become over the last few years, that was something else. He couldn't let that happen. "I'll… keep my head down."

"Promise."

"I promise I'll do my best."

Selby scowled. "You get yourself killed, I have to explain to Lirene why."

"Tell her I died for a good cause."

"Stubborn Fereldan dog," she spat.

Anders did smile this time, and watched her go. He waited for a full three minute count before dropping a few coppers on the table and heading out. Twilight had fallen, people rushing hither and thither to buy their last minute things at the marketplace before shops closed for the night. Anders was intent on returning to his clinic when he rounded a corner and stopped.

Templars, four of them and in full plate, heading toward him. It might have been just a regular patrol, but he had no desire to be anywhere near them. They passed between buildings, moonlight throwing their faces into sharp relief and Anders gasped. Bald head, grey goatee and though he couldn't see them this far away in the darkness, Anders was familiar with those eerie, ice blue eyes. He took a step back, then another, turned, and hurried down an alley.

It wasn't his imagination when the familiar clanking of plate metal increased. His heart was pounding and he broke into a run. From behind him, he heard someone shouting. How could they have found him? Did they have his name? Did they have Selby's? He leapt down a staircase into a more populated area of Lowtown, hoping to make it at least to a crowd he could lose himself in and escape to the Undercity. He felt it suddenly, a disconnect from his magic. One of the Templars cast a cleansing. He could barely feel Justice, and ran faster, legs aching.

People were starting to turn their heads, watching now as he sprinted through the marketplace, Templars behind him, shouting. Something caught his ankle, then wrapped around both his feet and he fell hard to the ground, hands out to break his fall. The stone scraped his palms and knees as he skidded several feet, panting and sweating. The shock of the fall wore away quickly, but the vulnerability he felt as he reached instinctively for his healing magic and couldn't find it remained. He flipped over to his back; if death was coming, he'd meet it face to face. Around his legs, a leather bola. He kicked uselessly at it.

The Templars approached, Ser Alrik at the head, looking down at him, expressionless.

"Take him for questioning," he said, his voice monotone.

"I've done nothing!" Anders protested.

"The innocent do not run."

Anders kicked again, and backed away as two of Alrik's men approached.

"What exactly is going on here?"

And Anders knew that voice, that slight Ferelden accent, that tone of derision. He looked back and while he felt relieved to see Aveline – an ally – he wasn't sure what she would do. Would she allow them to take him? How much proof did Alrik have? Further, how much proof did he need?

"Guard-Captain," Alrik acknowledged. "This doesn't concern you."

"On the contrary, you're running down a citizen of mine, on my turf. If he's a thief, I'll deal with him," she said. She leaned down and plucked the bola from Anders' ankles, hauling him to his feet. She kept firm hand on his arm.

"He's a person of interest in a Templar investigation," Alrik said evenly.

"Have you proof? Papers? Or did Grand Cleric Elthina suddenly decide to give her Templars free reign of my city to start arresting upstanding citizens on a whim?"

 _Upstanding citizens?_ Anders thought. That was a laugh. But he kept his silence.

Alrik's eyes narrowed. "We can question who we wish."

"A Knight-Captain or Knight-Commander might have that authority without proper papers," Aveline assented, looking him over. "You seem to be a rank short. If Knight-Captain Cullen or Knight-Commander Meredith wish to question a colleague of Garrett Hawke-" The name gave the other three Templars pause at least, "-then they can do so at their own behest. But as that's not the case, I expect you to leave my citizens alone. Knight-Lieutenant," she said sharply.

Alrik pursed his lips, but otherwise showed no emotion in this decision. "Very well. We'll retrieve the necessary paperwork. Then you," he said, looking at Anders, "will answer all my questions, whether you want to or not."

He held up a hand for his men to follow and walked away. The hand on Anders' arm unclenched, then fell. Aveline let out a breath.

"Thank the Maker you were here," Anders said, turning to her.

She was glaring. "Don't ever put me in that position again," she barked. "I have enough trouble with the Knight-Commander without you adding to it."

"If it's any consolation," Anders said, looking down his scraped palms, "he actually didn't have authority to take me. Meredith doesn't know who I am." Yet.

Aveline's frown deepened and she said quietly, "Yes, he did. You are an apostate, and I'm aiding and abetting a fugitive."

Anders scowled, furious now. "Then turn me in. And while you're at it, turn Hawke in as well!" He felt Justice's anger flaring, and his palms healed over at once.

Aveline's face flushed. "You stubborn ass."

"And to think, I was almost grateful for your help. Don't do me any more favors," he snapped, and pulled his hood back up.

He ignored her as she called after him and hurried down an alley into a sewer passage that led to Darktown and hopefully also to a distraction from his anger.

-

Three days later, Hawke entered the clinic at exactly noon, carrying a package. Anders looked up from his patient, acknowledging him with a brief smile before returning to work. He took note of Hawke's new outfit. Soft, chocolate brown trousers, cream colored tunic, short black coat with golden embroidery and a forest green sash holding it together. He'd kept the black boots and the leather gloves, and his staff with the green stone. And, Anders noticed when he looked up again, the feather Hawke had taken from him was threaded into the right sleeve of his coat.

"Maker's blessing on you, Healer," his patient's mother said, gripping his hand.

He refused payment as always and sent them on their way. Taking up a damp cloth, he dabbed the sweat at his forehead. Summers in Kirkwall were no kinder than the winters. Hawke looked cool and unruffled despite being dressed in layers, but Anders had left his coat off and he still found the day warm. Anders gestured him over, pouring out two glasses of water. Hawke took the proffered glass, taking a sip and setting the package down on the metal examination table.

"Well, are you going to tell me what it is?" Anders asked, nodding at it.

"Only if you tell me why Aveline was at my house the other day, screaming at me about 'ungrateful apostates' and that I needed to 'pick better friends'."

"Ah."

Hawke didn't seem angry though. Perhaps Aveline's unconventional methods of communication had put him off trying to understand her point of view. Regardless, he pushed the package toward Anders.

Anders frowned but unwrapped it. Pulling out the soft, velvety fabric, he separated each piece, looking at them. A deep blue tunic, black pants, and midnight blue robes with a silver clasp. The material was soft and lightweight, with very little frivolity save for the embroidery on the hood. He ran his fingers over the black silk thread.

"The Amell crest?" he noted. "Another new outfit? Did you want to model it for me?" he asked, confused.

Hawke shook his head. "They're for you. Mother's got herself a sewing circle and wanted a new project."

Anders stared at him. "Your mother sewed me a new outfit?"

Hawke pulled out the last bit of the outfit, a blood red sash. "You need new boots too. Or at least get those mended."

Anders looked down at his boots. The buckles were tarnished, the leather cracked and peeling. The soles were almost worn through and they had definitely seen better days.

"I know a cobbler."

"Of course you do," Anders said, sighing. He set the robes down and pressed his fingertips to his forehead, closing his eyes.

"So you don't like them?" Hawke asked, sounding uncertain.

Anders stepped away, taking a long sip from his water glass. "It's not that, Hawke. They're lovely, and I can't accept them."

"Why not?"

Anders turned, his frown matching Hawke's. "The material is expensive."

"It's a gift," Hawke insisted. "From one friend to another."

"From your mother," Anders said, looking back down at the robes.

"I thought she did fairly well with mine," Hawke said, lifting his arms and turning once for him. "Please don't make me tell her you refused."

Anders looked down at his own clothes, then back to the robes. He felt exhausted, elated, and confused. Hawke would leave him alone for weeks only to come back and pester him for days on end, bringing him little gifts of lyrium or hard to find reagents, and try to get him to come out to the Hanged Man. There had been touches on his hands, his shoulder. Hugs hello and goodbye. Anders tried to make sense of it all, and on the nights he managed to fall onto his cot before the sun came up, his thoughts were inevitably of Hawke.

_He is a distraction._

He knew the thought came from Justice, and he closed his eyes again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"They're lovely. I accept," he finally said.

Hawke reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. "Excellent. Let me know if they need tailoring. You'll have to come up for a fitting though. Mother did it all by memory since you're so often scarce."

"I've been busy."

"Even in the middle of the night, it seems," Hawke said. "Late night lover?"

Anders eyes flashed and he pulled Justice back quickly, hoping it hadn't shown. "No. Just busy."

Hawke crossed his arms, leaning against a beam. "So, want to tell me what Aveline was in a huff over? I nearly couldn't convince her to come with me on my last errand."

"What errand?"

"You heard about the poisoned streets in Lowtown?"

Anders searched his memory, trying to recall any news. He remembered Selby briefly mentioning the death of several Lowtown residents in the eastern most district. It was unfortunate, but none of the casualties had been mages, none of the propagators Templars. Anders hadn't given it another thought and the whole thing had been cleaned up.

"Vaguely."

"It turns out that the Qunari laid a trap. They have an explosive powder called gaatlok."

Anders had a flash of remembrance. A crazy dwarf, lyrium sand, a lot of very loud booms. "I think I've heard of it."

"And quite a few people asked after it," Hawke continued. "Are you going to get changed?"

Anders frowned but took the bundle into his office area, tossing it on the cot. "Go on," he said over the partition, and began to change.

"They set a trap, instead of the gaatlok, it was a poison. And someone made quite a lot of it. Thought it was a pain in the ass dwarf, but it ended up being a crazy elf."

Anders listened as he changed, pausing to take up a wet cloth to wash away sweat and dirt. It had been far too long since he'd had a proper bath. Sponging off and scrubbing his hair with cheap soap didn't quite leave him feeling clean. He felt hurt that Hawke hadn't asked him along to assist, and stepped out from the partition.

"You could've gotten hurt. I would've helped."

"You weren't around," Hawke said easily. He reached out, adjusting the robe's collar.

Anders crossed his arms. Hawke shrugged and took up the sash. Before Anders could stop him, he'd moved forward and wrapped it around his middle, adjusting the fabric. Anders' breath caught at the closeness, and he watched Hawke tie an elegant knot that hid the ends. Hawke looked up, grinning.

"All set."

Anders spread his arms, looking down at himself. The fabric was lightweight and comfortable. He sighed, dropping his arms. "Tell your mother I said thank you, then."

"I will. Now," Hawke said, moving the paper wrappings and hopping to sit up on the examination table, "will you tell me where you've been? Since you won't tell me what happened with Aveline."

"It's… not a good idea."

"I told you about my exploits," Hawke pressed. "And you're never around anymore. We've missed you in the Hanged Man. Everyone's been asking after you."

"Everyone?" Anders asked dubiously.

"Mostly everyone," Hawke acquiesced.

Anders frowned, pulling a crate over so he could sit, looking up at Hawke, whose legs swung idly. "Have you noticed there are more new Tranquils in the Gallows courtyard every day? And don't tell me I'm just sensitive to it."

Hawke looked pensive. "I did. The last time I was there. And Carver mentioned something in his last letter."

The years that passed did nothing to quell the rivalry between the Hawke brothers, but Hawke could at least say the name without growling it or setting something on fire. Carver for his part had remained fairly innocuous in the Order, though Hawke had mentioned he'd taken a trip to Val Royeaux with the Knight-Captain a few months back.

"They're all good mages too," Anders said. "Ones I know have passed their Harrowing. The Templars are abusing their power. They're using the Rite of Tranquility for anyone who speaks out against them. In the Ferelden Circle, the fraternities spoke freely, could meet where they wished within the tower." He personally hadn't joined, but had lain in Karl's arms nightly, listening to him speak about the Libertarians' viewpoints. "But there are none in Kirkwall. There used to be. Mages who are considered to be anything but Loyalists are at risk."

He glanced behind Hawke to make sure no one was coming in; the clinic was empty.

"The Templars are working on deliberate plan to turn every mage in Kirkwall Tranquil within three years," he said quietly.

"Is that what Carver was talking about in his letter?" Hawke asked, leaning down, forearms resting on his thighs. He too, had lowered his voice, brows knitted in concern.

Anders nodded, swallowing. He wondered how much he should tell Hawke. Perhaps… perhaps he could ask Hawke for help. Hawke would understand why Alrik needed to die. No mage or Tranquil was safe in the Circle while Alrik still drew breath. Selby would have to understand. "The plan is the work of a knight-lieutenant named Alrik. I had a run-in with him myself."

Hawke straightened a bit. "What happened?" 

Anders recognized the tone. He sounded ready to tear Alrik's head off. Time and time again, Hawke had proven that he was willing to go to great lengths to protect his friends; that he didn't care what happened to him so long as those under his wing were kept safe. Anders shivered a bit under that intense glare. 

"He nearly arrested me. That… that was why Aveline was cross with you. She stopped him and I'm afraid I was less than gracious." He waited to see if Hawke would get angry, or ask for more detail.

"I'm sure you had good reason. Go on," Hawke prompted.

Surprised but pleased with the trust, Anders continued. "He's a nasty piece of work. Likes to abuse his authority over Templars and mages both." He pursed his lips, then said, "He's the one who did the ritual on Karl."

Hawke's eyes flashed, but with anger or sympathy, it was impossible to tell. His expression was too hard to read and not for the first time, Anders wished he could read minds.

"Why would he try to arrest you?" Hawke asked finally. "You've been careful, right?"

There was nothing else for it. He'd have to explain, at least a little of it. "I've been involved in an… underground resistance. Mages and mage-sympathizers living free in Kirkwall, helping to liberate those in the Circle. I can't tell you anymore for your sake," he said, and when Hawke opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off. "Please don't ask me. You have too much involvement with the Guard and the nobility." Aveline's angry declaration of aiding and abetting was fresh in his mind. "I don't want to put you in more danger. You'd do the same for me, right?" he prompted, feeling only slightly bad for guilting him.

Hawke scowled and hopped off the table. "That's not fair."

Anders stood and followed him, grabbing his arm. "Please. Alrik's a sadist. He needs to be stopped."

Hawke's shoulders dropped and he turned back to face Anders. "You think we can find evidence of his involvement in this plan?"

"We need to try to find something. If we could expose this plan, there would be an outrage. There would be so many people willing to speak out. The grand cleric would have to take a stance. She'd have to stop this injustice!"

"You're getting angry," Hawke said, turning fully toward him. He cupped Ander's face, thumbs gently stroking his cheeks. "Stay in control."

Anders hadn't even realized. Normally he could feel Justice rise, sense himself losing control. He was suddenly out of breath, and reached up, gripping Hawke's wrists. "I'm here," he said, dropping his gaze.

"How do we proceed?"

"There's a secret entrance," Anders said, concentrating on the feeling of Hawke's hands on him. His thumbs prickling his days-old stubble. "I know the way that will take us into the Gallows. We can look for evidence there."

"When?" Hawke asked, bringing Anders' chin up to look him in the eye.

 _Maker have mercy._ The ambivalence he felt, the anger, the blind rage at Alrik, his plans, and then there was Hawke, holding him there, anchoring him to this world so he wouldn't lose himself. It was overwhelming. "Tonight. When it's dark."

"We should bring help. Just in case."

"Who would you have?" Anders asked, uncomfortable as he knew the answer.

Hawke frowned. "He would have your back as he'd have mine. I can't trust Aveline with this. Perhaps Varric, then…"

"No," Anders said at once.

Hawke was right, of course. Hawke was too close to the Guard, but he needed his help. Aveline _was_ the Guard. If they were caught, Varric could be tortured and he knew more than half the city's secrets. Isabela would be willing but he couldn't entirely trust her to keep a secret. Then there was Merrill. While she held no love for the Templar Order, to hear Hawke speak, she and Carver had gotten quite close. Fenris was unfortunately the most logical choice. No ties to the city, and he could handle pain should it come to that. And, begrudgingly Anders had to admit if only to himself that Fenris was a somewhat skilled swordsman.

"Bring him tonight," Anders sighed. "But it has to be kept an utmost secret. He has to swear it-"

"He will. I wouldn't let you do this alone."

And Hawke kissed his forehead. The gesture was familiar, as if Hawke had done it thousands of times before. And while he had to lean up to do it, it was effortless. 

Anders smiled, and Hawke lowered his hands. "You are the one bright light in Kirkwall," Anders whispered. "I've always feared being made Tranquil, now more than ever."

"I won't let that happen," Hawke said. "They'd have to come through me to get to you and I'm not so easily dispatched."

"I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you." The words came out easily before Anders could hold them back. It seemed the very feelings he'd tried to bury deep were bubbling quickly, rapidly, to the surface.

Hawke licked his lips. "I-"

"Serah Healer?"

Hawke turned and Anders shifted around him. A young girl, perhaps early teens, was guiding an old woman who was wrapped in a blanket despite the summer heat. The old woman coughed, a horrible rattling sound in her chest.

"Tonight," Anders muttered to Hawke, before hurrying to help. 

He gave Hawke a quick smile and a nod as he left. Tonight they would get the evidence they needed.

-

Night came, bringing with it anxiety, apprehension, and an agonizing sense of foreboding. He held his staff loosely in hand, new robes blending in with the darkness. Coming around the corner, he heard them before he saw them, even with the moonlight streaming into Darktown.

"This is a bad idea," Fenris intoned.

"So you've mentioned twice already. I need-" Hawke looked up. "Anders. Ready?"

Anders clenched his jaw. "Is he?"

Fenris scowled, crossing his arms. "I have agreed to help. And I will."

"Good," Anders said in a clipped tone. "This way."

He brushed by both of them, head up, looking for signs of anything that could go wrong. He'd made the trip so many times before, but always alone and always in the middle of the night. To see a denizen of Darktown climb into the sewers wasn't altogether unheard of. Many went there to escape the guard or the gangs, or to search for rats when there wasn't enough food to go around. Anders wondered how inconspicuous they were – the Healer, the Ferelden who'd gained a mansion in Hightown, and a Tevinter elf with lyrium tattoos. No one else matched their descriptions, and anyone in Darktown would sell out for the right price. He only hoped no one would come looking.

"Let us hope if we're caught that we're mistaken for thieves and not conspirators," Fenris muttered, as they climbed down the ladder.

"You cannot tell anyone," Anders said, and his tone was pleading. "The lives of mages depend on this, Fenris." He led them down the drainage tunnel.

Fenris sneered. "I am here out of favor for Hawke and the misguided sense of faith that he's put in you. I am certainly not here to help mages."

"He's aware," Hawke said sharply. "This is not Tevinter. Mages here are treated more like slaves than you know." His tone indicated that they'd had this conversation before.

Fenris was quiet for a moment, then through the darkness, "My apologies."

Hawke huffed, but seemed satisfied. 

"Through here," Anders said, showing the way through the hidden door. He held it open for both Hawke and Fenris and then followed them through. 

In the dark, Fenris's tattoos glowed ever so slightly. Anders could feel a slight thrum of power from them, similar to the raw lyrium they'd found in the Deep Roads. He wondered if that was one of the reasons Hawke seemed to enjoy his presence. Was being near Fenris like having an instant well of mana? But these were thoughts for another time. With the light from his tattoos they were able to traverse the tunnels without magic. Anders had ceased needing the map long ago, and only paused as they rounded the last tunnel.

"Voices," he whispered, frowning.

The glow extinguished and they were left in darkness.

"No, please!" A girl's voice. "I haven't done anything wrong!"

Anders held up a hand to Hawke and Fenris, who'd both started to draw their weapons. He inched slowly along the cave wall, peering around the corner to look. Six Templars stood, backs to him. At the front, Alrik slowly advanced on a young girl. Her short black hair hung in her eyes as she backed away, holding up her hands.

"That's a lie," Alrik said in his quiet, calm voice. "What do we do to mages who lie?"

"I just wanted to see my mum!" the girl protested. "No one ever told her where they were taking me!"

Anders had no idea who this girl was. She wasn't on any of Selby's lists, and with Thrask incarcerated there hadn't been any activity out of the Gallows in the last week. Perhaps she was a new acquisition and someone told her how to escape? More likely she was set up.

_They will take her! We MUST act!_

Anders shook his head. "No!" he hissed. "No, this is their place… we can't!"

"Anders, what…?"

A hand on his shoulder. Hawke. He came back to himself and stepped into the room, Hawke and Fenris following behind him. The Templars didn't turn, didn't hear them moving silently.

Alrik was speaking again. "So, you admit your attempted escape? You know what happens to mage girls who don't toe the line around here, don't you?" He towered over her, shining plate armor, while his men advanced, swords in hand.

The girl sank to her knees, hands raised, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please, no! Don't make me Tranquil! I'll do anything!"

Anders removed his staff.

_Do it NOW!_

He closed his eyes, trying to stay in control. His heart sped up, Justice beating at the walls of his consciousness, trying to break free. He stumbled forward a bit.

"That's right," Alrik said, his voice greasy now. "Once you're Tranquil, you'll do anything I ask."

Hawke, from behind him, pushed forward. "Get your hands off her!" he snarled.

His voice, now so full of fury, was no longer a calming anchor; Anders couldn't hold on any longer. Justice erupted into being and he lost track of his own thoughts. Raising his staff, feeling nothing but naked fury coupled with the need to make these Templars suffer the same outrage they'd caused mages, he simply gave in. Flashes came to him as Justice moved his body, casting powerful magic, barely registering the surge of righteousness when another Templar fell.

"Get away from me, demon!"

He whirled around, charging forward. "I am no demon!" Justice bellowed, causing the girl to cower. "Are you one of them that you would call me such?"

He heard something faint in the distance. Justice howled, but the sound was inside his head. 

"Justice," he growled, and he could see clearly now, the girl in front of him, sobbing, "answers to no one!"

"Anders, listen to me."

Hawke's voice. He could hear him. He fought for control. Justice pushed back and he staggered. In an instant, he opened his eyes and could see everything, could remember everything. The girl looked at him and ran, back toward the Gallows. He could hear her crying. Realization struck him.

"Maker, no," he gasped. "I almost-"

Hawke was there, next to him, reaching for him.

"If you weren't here," Anders cried. He turned, seeing Fenris staring at him, expression cold, then looked up at Hawke, expecting to see the same. What he saw was worse.

Sympathy. Compassion. Sadness.

Anders did the only thing he could. He ran.


	2. Chapter 2

He raced through the darkness, around the winding tunnels, climbed the sewer ladder and bolted up the stairs into his clinic. The face of that girl was all he could see. She begged and pleaded with him, just like she'd done Ser Alrik. He was no better. He would've killed her, had it not been for Hawke. Hawke, who looked at him so intensely. Hawke who'd lost a father to a similar path. Hawke, who was the one person who gave him just a little bit of happiness. Someone who understood what it meant to live under the Templars' shadows, always watching his back. Anders paced frantically, wringing his hands, panic gripping him, making it difficult to breathe. Focus, he just needed to focus. He dropped to his knees in front of a crate and tossed aside the lid. Looking down at the mess, he started to violently sort his reagents and papers.

A few minutes later the clinic door opened. He didn't look back, knowing already that it would be Hawke.

"Then leave!" Hawke was shouting. 

At Fenris?

Anders concentrated on the task at hand. It was easier than thinking about what had just happened. He tossed things aside, making a pile for trash and a pile to keep. If he could just focus, he could calm down, his hands shaking now. He heard two sets of footsteps. One stopped, but the other continued until they were behind him. Anders felt Hawke kneel down, touch his shoulders. He shrugged him off violently.

"Don't," he said, and his voice came out a sob.

"Anders, talk to me."

Anders hated how calm his voice was, how understanding. How could Hawke understand _this_? "I almost murdered a girl. A mage. A person I dedicated my very life to saving."

"But you didn't hurt her. She's fine."

Anders shook his head, gripping a glass container of elfroot. "She wouldn't have been. If you hadn't been there. I would've killed her just for being in Justice's way."

"I helped her," Hawke said gently. "I gave her money. Sent her to Samson. It's not the best choice, but she'll be safe, Anders. She won't tell anyone."

"You think I care if she tells someone?" Anders said desperately. He turned to look at Hawke, and stood. Hawke rose as well. His hands were still shaking, clutching the container. "She should! It's all gone wrong. Me and Justice. I-I turned him into something worse. A force of vengeance. I'm not… safe."

"At least you're willing to admit it," Fenris said from behind Hawke. He stood, sword held loosely in his hand at his side.

Anders didn't have the energy or even the will to argue. But Hawke had rounded on him.

"That's not helpful, Fenris," he spat.

"I am not here to help, Hawke!" Fenris snapped, taking a step forward. "Maybe you're right, maybe all mages won't abuse power or freedom. You have not. But turn around, Hawke. Look at him." He gestured to Anders.

Anders trembled slightly. He tried to think of something to say as Hawke turned back to look at him. Hawke glanced him up and down, took in the fear on his face, his shaking hands, his hunched shoulders. Then he turned back to Fenris.

"Anders is not a danger. He's upset. He'll be fine." He spoke in short, clipped sentences that almost dared Fenris to challenge him.

Fenris rose gloriously to that challenge. "He's out of control!" Fenris yelled, pointing one gauntleted finger at Anders. "How long before he turns on one of us? On you? How long before that thing comes out and we find you lying in pieces in a sewer somewhere?"

"Stop," Anders whispered. "Please." It hurt to hear it, but only because it was a question he'd asked himself already. He knew the risks. He needed to distance himself now. He should have remembered the rules of the Circle. Don't get too close. Don't fall in love. It can only end badly. With Justice, it should've been even easier to remember that rule, and yet he'd failed.

"Leave him be," Fenris said, looking directly at Anders, eyes narrowed. "If you wish to save mages, do so on your own terms. At least you have the will to control yourself. But let Hawke go."

Hawke left Anders' side and stormed up to Fenris, who had to take several steps back. "You don't get to decide that!" Hawke shoved him back against the wall, palm flat against his breastplate. "I will not leave him, no more than I would leave you or Varric or any of my friends!" His voice echoed in the empty clinic.

"Why bother with him?" Fenris snarled, lyrium markings coming to light almost involuntarily. He reached up to grip the wrist of the hand that had him pinned. "He will bring you nothing but pain. What do you even see in an abomina-"

"Because I love him," Hawke snapped.

Silence.

Anders stood, dumbfounded. He was upset, shaking, and there was no way he could have heard properly. Or if he did, perhaps he simply misunderstood. Fenris had a curious expression on his face, not quite disgust, but not quite anger. Jealousy? He didn't know Fenris well enough to read his mannerisms. He couldn't see Hawke's face, but the hand not on Fenris was clenched and he was standing his ground. He looked as if he was ready to punch the elf, friendship or no. Exhausted from the drain of Justice's powers, Anders' arms dropped of their own accord. The glass container hit the floor and shattered. Hawke glanced back, and Fenris shoved his hand away, disappearing quickly out of the room.

"Fenris!" Hawke called, starting after him, stopping on the landing outside.

"Go on," Anders said flatly. He knelt and started to pick up the pieces of glass, careful not to cut himself. His hands no longer shook; he felt numb. He refused to acknowledge what happened, couldn't let himself hope that Hawke was being genuine with his proclamation.

Hawke stepped back inside, shaking his head, and pulled the clinic door shut. He turned back to Anders. "I…" He sighed, running a hand back through his thick black hair.

Anders looked up and watched him. It was almost as if he could see an internal conflict play out as Hawke paced shortly back and forth. Would he yell? Blame him for the loss of Fenris's companionship? Agree with him about the dangers of Justice? But Hawke did none of these things. He stopped pacing and strode over, pulling him to his feet. Hawke's hands gripped his arms almost painfully, and Anders flinched, expecting the worst.

But Hawke drew him close and kissed him soundly. Anders' head swam and he felt dizzy, reaching out and clutching tightly to his chest. His knees buckled, but Hawke was there, catching him, pulling him flush against him, arms wrapping around his waist. His back bent slightly, lips parting, allowing Hawke to deepen the kiss.

Sweet Andraste.

It was everything he'd ever wanted. Everything he'd ever imagined since first meeting him.

And it was all horribly, terribly wrong.

Anders pushed Hawke away weakly, grateful when he was allowed to go. Heart pounding, stomach fluttering, he gasped for air, tears coming to his eyes. He released the fabric of Hawke's coat, smoothing it before laying his palms against Hawke's chest. Anders could feel his heart beating quickly as well. He kept his eyes down, not wanting to see the intense look he knew Hawke was giving him. He couldn't handle it.

"Anders," Hawke said quietly, concerned.

"Just stop. Please. Don't," he begged, but with no real conviction.

"Tell me why. Tell me… was I wrong? Do you not feel the same?"

Damn him. He sounded so unsure. So worried. Anders closed his eyes, taking a breath, then looked up at him.

Green eyes, soft and wanting. Still intense, but in such a different way. Tender. 

Anders slid his hands up to Hawke's shoulders, then leaned in. "This is… wrong," he muttered against Hawke's lips, and kissed him.

It was less frenzied but no less passionate. Hawke held his hips loosely while Anders's fingers moved through his hair, holding the back of his head. It was soft and slow, reassuring. And when he pulled back finally, Hawke was still there. He pressed his forehead to Hawke's, a familiar feeling.

"Why is it wrong?" Hawke demanded quietly.

"I am… what I am. With Justice." Anders sighed. "I thought this part of me was over. I never even thought… Even friendship was a foreign concept." He shook his head.

Hawke gently guided him toward the partitioned off office, sitting him down on the cot. He poured a glass of water and Anders took it between shaking hands. Hawke sank next to him, arm around him, and waited. Anders sipped, calming down.

"I had hoped," Anders tried again. "Thought stupidly that one day I'd hear you say those words. But I never let myself be fooled. You know what the life of an apostate entails, and I am even worse than that. If you stay with me, you can never have a normal life. Kirkwall can give you that. A stable home, a wife. Children," he said wistfully.

"And if I wanted all that," Hawke said, taking the glass once it was empty, "I would be up in Hightown now, having dinner with an insufferable family and their equally irritating daughter." He set the glass on Anders' desk and turned to face him, tucking a leg underneath himself so he could look at Anders properly. His hand found Anders' and he entwined their fingers together. "I know what an apostate's life is like. I've lived it. My mother gave up her nobility because she loved my father. And I would give up the same for you."

"If you stay with me," Anders whispered, "we'll be hunted. The Templars will not stop at trying to figure out how Alrik was murdered. Meredith will catch on, no matter how careful we are. A storm is brewing, Hawke."

"Garrett."

Anders looked up at him, brow furrowed.

"My name, you know it," Hawke said. "If you are to be with me, you can use my first name."

Maybe it was the absurdity of the situation, sitting here talking about a future he never thought he could have after murdering half a dozen Templars, losing himself to Justice again, the bone-deep exhaustion of too many sleepless nights and stress, but Anders laughed. Hawke smiled, leaning in and kissing him chastely.

"Garrett," he agreed, sighing. "Are you sure?"

"Are you going to keep asking me that?" Hawke asked, raising an eyebrow, smirking slightly.

"Yes," Anders said, laughing again shakily. "I expect you'll hear it daily."

"As long as you promise to stay with me," Hawke said, "then I don't mind. I'll remind you every day." He kissed him. "And every night." Another kiss. "And sometimes in the middle of the night," he added, leaning in and kissing his cheek before nuzzling his ear.

Anders gasped, allowing the knowledge of the implication to sink in. It had been too long since he had someone by his side. And for that someone to be Hawke… Hawke who was kissing him again, Hawke who was holding him. Anders sighed happily, leaning against him.

"Come home with me," Hawke said.

"What, now?" Anders asked, too tired to feel surprised at the request.

"I don't want to leave you here alone tonight. I would feel better if I knew you were safe. If the Templars come knocking, if they find Alrik's body." Hawke moved back, reaching up to smooth Anders' hair, then cupped his jaw, kissing him again.

Anders' eyes fluttered closed. He had thought about kissing Hawke for a long time, and in the span of less than twenty minutes, he'd lost track of how many kisses he'd received from him. Hawke certainly seemed to enjoy doing it, and he wasn't going to complain. "Did you… did you find anything on him? About the Tranquil Solution?" Anders asked, remembering their initial purpose.

Hawke sat back and pulled a letter out from inside his breast pocket. "I think you might be surprised. Apparently he was stupid enough to carry this around."

Anders took it with a steady hand and opened it.

_To Her Excellency, Divine Justinia,_

_I am well aware both you and Knight-Commander Meredith have rejected my proposal, but I beg you to reconsider. The mages in the Free Marches are past controlling, their numbers have doubled in three years, and they have found a way to plant their abominations in our ranks. They cannot be contained!_

_The Tranquil Solution is our answer. All mages at the age of majority must be made Tranquil. They'll coexist peacefully, retain their usefulness—a perfect strategy! It's simply the best way to ensure mages obey the laws of men and Maker._

_I remain, as always, your obedient servant,_

_Ser Otto Alrik_

"Knight-Commander Meredith rejected the idea?" he said, bewildered. The full impact of the letter sunk in. "The _Divine_ rejected the idea. This isn't what I expected." He felt a flooding relief. Meredith had struck him as one of the very worst. But she'd seen folly in Alrik's plan. And the Chantry was opposed to it. "Perhaps… perhaps I should talk to the Grand Cleric. Maybe she's more reasonable than I thought." He pursed his lips, thinking.

"Then we'll go together," Hawke said. "But not now, and not soon. We should both lie low for a few days until they find his body. There'll be an investigation. I'll… get a message to Carver," he said, somewhat reluctantly. "It's about bloody time he makes himself useful. He can keep us updated."

Anders nodded. "Just be careful." He reached out tentatively and touched Hawke's knee. It felt good, liberating, to be able to touch him without worrying what he might think or do.

"I will if you do," Hawke agreed.

Anders folded the letter and got to his feet, moving to his desk. He stowed it in a hidden compartment in the bottom drawer. Hawke stood as well, coming to stand behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Anders hesitated, but took his hands, and Hawke rested his chin on his shoulder. It felt nice. Warm and safe.

"Come home with me," Hawke said, a whisper against his ear.

Anders swallowed, then nodded. "I have to get a few things first."

Hawke kissed his cheek, then waited patiently while Anders packed several books and papers into a bag. He took the last of his lyrium and elfroot potions as well. Hawke gestured to his old coat.

"Bring that. Mother can try to do something with it."

Anders frowned. He'd forgotten about the other occupants in Hawke's home. Not only Leandra, but Bodahn and Sandal as well. He was more concerned about her though. "Will your mother allow me to stay with you?"

"It's my estate," Hawke said. "What I say goes."

This was not a response that Anders was expecting. From the way Varric and Isabela teased him, he had always assumed Hawke would do whatever Leandra dictated. He didn't want to come between family. "If you're sure."

Hawke smiled.

"I'm doing it again, aren't I?" Anders asked, realizing what he'd just said "I did warn you…"

"You did, and my answer hasn't changed," Hawke promised. He picked up Anders' old coat and folded it, careful of the feathered pauldrons. "We don't have to go through Lowtown. There's a quick way up."

Anders followed him out, carrying bag and staff, and locked his clinic. He would have to send a note to Lirene and Selby in the morning to let them know he'd be out of touch for a few days. Instead of starting down the steps, Hawke gestured to what Anders had always assumed was a blocked passage to Lowtown. As he followed Hawke up the ladder that was less than fifteen feet from his clinic door, he realized there was a trap door at the top. Hawke pulled himself up and then helped Anders through. It opened into a very large, very dusty wine cellar.

"Is this…?"

"My basement."

Hawke let the trap door shut and locked it before pulling a dirty rug over top of it. He knocked his staff deftly on the floor and the tip lit up, illuminating the cellar. Enormous barrels sat in every corner. The racks were dusty, but held hundreds upon hundreds of bottles of wine.

"Maker's breath," Anders said, looking up. A large rolling ladder reached straight to the tall ceiling, attached to a rail that went around the room.

"And this is just room one of four," Hawke said, sounding pleased with himself. "Come on. I'll give you a proper tour later."

Anders followed Hawke up winding staircases, past a kitchen and a wing of servant's quarters. It was only when they emerged into a hallway with a long red runner rug that he finally got his bearings. He'd been in Hawke's estate a handful of times over the years, mostly for celebrations in the same vein as the first, but now realized he'd only ever seen a fraction of its size. Hawke took his hand and pulled him around a corner, through a door and up another set of stairs. Anders recognized the chandelier in the mail hall before following him into the bedroom. 

A mabari curled on the hearth, and Anders remembered it from the last time. It lifted its head, and Hawke walked by, scratching him behind the ears before the dog plopped back down, inching closer to the fire. Hawke opened the red and gold wardrobe and hung Anders' old coat up, then took his own off, undoing his sash and belt and hanging those next to it.

Anders stared for a moment at his coat hanging there next to Hawke's.

"What?" Hawke asked, taking note of his expression. He took Anders' staff and placed it in the corner next to his own.

And there it was again.

"You've got a weird look," Hawke said, sitting on the bed, starting to unlace his boots.

"It's just…" Anders gestured at the wardrobe, then at their staves. "It's very…"

"Domestic?" Hawke grinned. "It takes some getting used to. Finally having a proper house. It took me a long time to settle in. We never had much, even when we had the farm in Lothering. Material possessions anyway," he said, gesturing to a small chest again the wall.

Anders glanced. It lay open, a small collection of keepsakes. He thought of his own, hidden away in a hole at the back of his clinic, covered by his cot. He wished he'd brought it with him now. But he was only staying here for a few days after all, right? Shaking himself a bit, he sat down at the desk and removed his boots as well.

"Only ever had what we could carry," Hawke said. "A wardrobe full of clothing, a shelf full of books? They don't travel well when you're being chased by Templars." He pulled off his boots and stood, crossing the room to take Anders by the hands. "Would you feel more comfortable in a guest room?" His tone was hesitant, a tinge of hope that clearly stated he would prefer Anders to stay here.

Anders looked past him to the bed. Four poster and canopied, thick yellow ropes held back lush red curtains. He imagined himself lying in bed, being held by Hawke, waking up next to him. And he thought about the handful of nights he'd spent down the hall in a guest room, the bed less opulent, but still comfortable. Falling asleep, thinking about Hawke just a few rooms away. And of course, waking up alone.

A nasty thought crossed his mind suddenly, staring at Hawke's bed.

"Did you sleep with Isabela there?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

Hawke frowned. "No. I broke it off before I moved in here fully. Our… dalliances were always elsewhere."

"The Hanged Man," Anders said. "And… the tent on the Deep Roads trip."

"What?" Hawke asked, then his eyes widened in remembrance. "Oh."

"But it's over," Anders said, almost apologetically.

Hawke kissed him gently. "Yes. It's over. It was nothing. No feelings, just friends sharing a few nights."

Anders shifted a bit, trying to phrase his next question delicately. "What you said to Fenris," he started. "When you-"

"I love you."

Hawke's green eyes were narrowed slightly, and Anders swallowed hard. He hadn't misheard then. How many nights had he lain awake, hearing the Hawke in his fantasy saying the same thing? How many times had he tossed and turned, waking up, reaching for a man who wasn't there?

"Justice doesn't approve," Anders said delicately. "He thinks you're a distraction. It's one of the few things on which he and I do not agree."

"I don't care what Justice thinks," Hawke replied a bit sharply. "I'm not in love with him."

"I'm sure he won't be disappointed to hear it," Anders laughed, feeling lighter. He leaned in and kissed Hawke again, allowing himself to be pulled backward toward the bed.

They tumbled onto the mattress, Hawke letting out a soft, 'oof' as Anders landed on him. Anders leaned up on his elbows, and Hawke reached up, tugging the tie from his hair before running his fingers through it. Anders winced.

"Not the most romantic thing," he admitted, knowing how he must look.

Hawke brought him down for another kiss, and Anders moaned softly, allowing himself to feel Hawke underneath him, all hard muscles, soft fabric and heat. When they broke apart, they were both panting. Anders looked down at him, blushing slightly. He felt the flash of magic in the air, and a second later, Hawke had reversed their positions.

"That's hardly fair," Anders said. "No haste spells."

"You could cast one just as easily!" Hawke laughed and kissed him, then sucked delicately on his lower lip. "You're irresistible when you pout."

"I do not pout."

"You do. More than you think. For weeks I've wanted to kiss you just to make you stop. Then you wouldn't look so sad."

Anders laughed. "Weeks," he repeated.

"Maybe longer," Hawke admitted. He shifted to the side, head on Anders' shoulder, hand on his chest. "I don't know when I realized. I knew how you felt, but I couldn't figure out my own feelings."

"You knew?" Anders asked, horrified. "How – Did Varric tell you?"

Hawke scoffed. "You told Varric?"

"He figured it out," Anders muttered.

Hawke was untying Anders' sash, undoing the buckle to the robe. His hand slid inside, rubbing gently over the silken tunic. Anders closed his eyes, his own hand coming up to play softly with Hawke's hair.

"Of course he did," Hawke said. "Dwarf's too smart for his own good sometimes." He leaned up on an elbow and continued to remove the robe and tunic, pulling at the laces.

Anders looked up at him. "But you knew."

"I've always had people look at me the way you do," Hawke said, shrugging modestly. "I thought maybe you'd eventually get over it. That maybe… I was just a passing phase for you. I was used to pushing people away if they got too close when we were in Ferelden. It was easier to break hearts than explain I was an apostate, with an apostate father and sister. But you were the same. You understood."

Anders knew he shouldn't have been shocked by the revelation. He'd always felt similarly for the most part. Getting close to Karl had been easy, at least insofar as proximity and understanding. Then, on the run, quick trysts. Even once with the female Templar who'd always been sent to capture him. Though he held no delusions that she would let him go, no matter how good he treated her in bed. There was no love there. With Nathaniel… he might have had something under different circumstances. But Nathaniel was a Howe looking to redeem his family name and he, Anders, was still just an apostate, even if he was a Grey Warden.

Never had it occurred to him that someone else, that Hawke, would have the same problems. It was just another reason why mages had to be free. It wasn't fair that something as simple and beautiful as falling in love was something they strove to avoid for fear of getting their heart broken. Having their lovers ripped away, made Tranquil. Killed. It wasn't fair that non-mages could take their lovers, their partners for granted. That they could fall in love and raise a family and as long as there wasn't magic in their line, they needn't fear the Chantry coming to take their children in the night. Or Maker forbid, rip the babes from their arms as soon as they were born.

"Anders?" Hawke asked, bringing a hand up to Anders' face.

It was only when Hawke wiped away a tear from his cheek that Anders realized he'd gotten lost for a moment inside his own head. He quickly reached up and wiped away his eyes.

"I'm fine," he said quietly. "Just thinking."

Hawke smiled softly. "I think I understand." He settled back down next to him, arm over his chest. "It doesn't have to end after a few days."

"Mm?" Anders asked, closing his eyes.

"You could stay here. With me. Forever."

Anders breathed in and out slowly, feeling very calm and very tired. He was reminded of Karl, how safe he'd felt with him. How excited he was. The prospects of being with someone who truly understood, who wanted to change it. Hawke relaxed slowly on top of him, his breathing evened out. He began to snore lightly. From the hearthrug, a scrabbling. The dog had gotten to his feet, plodded over, and sat at the side of the bed, looking at Anders expectantly.

"What?" he asked.

The mabari cocked its head.

"There's no room in the bed," Anders said.

A whine.

"Shh. He's sleeping. Maker, why couldn't he have had a cat instead. Go lie down."

The dog stood, and for a moment Anders was glad it listened to him. Then it came closer and he felt a slight surge of panic as it loomed closely. Pinned by Hawke's weight, he couldn’t back away. A big, wet tongue unfurled.

"Yeuch! No, bad dog!" Anders said, lifting his free arm to wipe off his face. He shoved the dog away. "Go."

The dog wagged his tail happily, then plodded back to the hearthrug and settled down. Anders sighed. He expected that meant he was accepted, but he hoped in future the dog would choose other ways to bestow his affections upon him. Hawke's warm weight on top of him, he closed his eyes and slowly fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Anders scarcely remembered a time in which he was happier. It was exciting and terrifying, opening his eyes in the morning and seeing someone he loved and who loved him in return. While the threat of the Templars was still very real, it seemed so far away lying here in Hawke's arms. And when Hawke pulled him close, hugged him tightly, he felt safe. Justice was quieter, calmer, though Anders could feel the irritation. He called Hawke a distraction, but Anders had never felt more focused. Once he'd sent a note off with Bodahn to Selby and Lirene, he immediately got to work. His mornings were filled with writing, scratching quill to parchment as he penned his ideas, more coherently and more passionately than before.

_Mages are seen as little more than tools for the Chantry's use. While magic is meant to serve man and most mages would be happy to fulfill their roles as teachers, scholars, historians, and aid in the struggles that their country or city faces, they are denied the most basic of all rights. Their freedom. They are locked away and told it is for their own good, that they are a danger to themselves. And while mages may be dangerous, there is nothing more cruel than to deny them the most simple thing of all: love._

_Platonic or romantic, love is a foreign concept to a mage. The Chantry breeds fear of mages, so much that one would find themselves homeless should their family find out. A father would not hesitate to turn their son over to the Templars out of fear of him. And if not fear of the mage himself, then fear of what the Chantry would do if the family refused to turn the mage over. The child is denied the love of their parent. Once removed from family, they will never again know what it feels like to have their mother's arms around them._

_Once the mage is deposited at his respective Circle, he may find friendship there amongst the other apprentices. However, one never wants to be seen being too friendly with another. Spending time with one person too often, indulging in the whims of childhood – playing pranks, getting into moderate amounts of trouble, sharing private jokes – are not seen as innocent nuances of growing up, but rather the very essence of what would bring about a fall to demons. Rules are strict, and enforced. The mage is watched from the time he enters the Circle, whether it is simply for a lesson, or more ominously, to when he is asleep._

_Forming sexual relationships amongst other mages is frowned upon. Casual relationships for physical companionship are not unheard of, but should a child result from that union, neither mage will ever see that child. Directly after it's born, it is taken away and never spoken of again. A mage living in the Circle will never know what it's like to cradle their own baby._

_Even daring to fall in love is forbidden. While the Chantry would call it 'fraternizing' a non-mage would simply call it basic human nature. For what does it mean to have a soul if one does not have the choice to fall in love? To know what it's like that someone you care for will be waiting for you when you return home in the evening? That theirs is the last face you see before you fall asleep and the first you see upon waking?_

Hawke grunted and rolled over, and Anders looked up. Tucked beneath the sheets, naked to the waist, he slowly opened his eyes, yawning. Anders smiled, blushing slightly. It was the morning of the third day since they'd spent that first night together. It still felt like a dream to him.

"Mm. Why are you over there?" Hawke mumbled, reaching out to him.

Anders put the quill aside. "I was working on something. Do you want to hear it?" He took up the paper and crossed to the bed, sitting down.

Hawke curled up around his back, pressing a kiss to his thigh. "I do. You look good in my pajamas," he added. He sat up, sitting behind Anders and wrapped his arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. "Go on."

Anders read. Four pages of his manifesto were dedicated to the basic rights of mages, what they were denied in the Circle, and why even those outside of it struggled.

Hawke reached around him, taking his hand, holding it tightly once he was finished. "You'll change minds with this. You'll get people thinking," he said. "I'm proud of you."

Anders felt a surge of pride for himself. He felt renewed, rejuvenated. With Hawke's support, the struggle felt less hopeless in a way. That perhaps they could change the Circle, convince the Chantry to reform the rules.

"It doesn't feel real," Anders said finally.

Hawke moved back, hands on his shoulders now. Anders was about to speak again when Hawke slowly started to massage, kneading his sore muscles.

"Oh," he whimpered.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the feeling of his strong, warm hands through the silken pajama top. Hawke brushed away his hair, thumbs pressing up the back of his neck. Anders murmured a happy sound. He felt the tension ebb away as Hawke carefully worked the knots from his muscles.

His hands were gone and Anders couldn't help a small noise of protest. Deft fingers worked the buttons to his top, and he allowed Hawke to slide the fabric down his arms, fingertips creating little goose bumps as the shirt fell away. Hawke kissed his shoulder, then his neck, and Anders tilted his head. Hawke swept away his hair, kissing again, up to his ear and back down.

"Mm, Hawke."

"Garrett," Hawke grumbled, and bit his neck.

Anders yelped, laughing. "Garrett. Three years of calling you Hawke might be a hard habit to break."

"As long as the name on your lips when you moan is mine," Hawke said, biting again though more gently this time.

Anders arched back into the feeling, pleasure radiating from that spot. Hawke wrapped his arms around his middle, taking the papers he still clutched in his hand. Anders let them go, and Hawke deposited them on the nightstand before returning to him.

"Lie on your stomach," he ordered. "So I can continue with your back."

Anders complied, shirtless now and moving to his stomach. He smiled as Hawke straddled his thighs, similarly clad in a fancy pair of pajama bottoms. He'd teased Hawke about the design, the opulent embroidery work. Hawke had laughed, made a joke about how they were plain compared to Orlesian finery. As Hawke started to knead the muscles in his back, Anders thought about the last few days.

He'd kept himself occupied with the many books in the library, making notes of history, writing his thoughts down. He'd penned more paragraphs in his time in Hawke's estate than in the last few months. His time with his clinic and the underground – though he was not complaining – kept him busy, strained. There'd been no time to simply get his thoughts in order and on paper. It would help for when they went to see the Grand Cleric, to make her see the injustices of the Circle, how the Templars were getting out of control.

Hawke had disappeared one evening, stating that he needed to speak with Fenris. Anders felt his jealousy flare, but Hawke was home two hours later to kiss him, to assure him that there was nothing but friendship between him and Fenris. Anders didn't ask further about the conversation, and Hawke didn't offer anything else. They took meals in the room and Anders was grateful for that. He wasn't sure if he could handle seeing Hawke's mother, and wondered what Hawke had told her as way of explanation.

"Oh, there," he murmured, as Hawke's thumbs pressed against his lower back.

He hissed, then moaned as Hawke worked the kink, and shivered when Hawke leaned down to kiss his shoulder. He continued to drop similar small kisses over his shoulder blades, down his spine, to the small of his back, then back up.

"Mm. What are you doing?" Anders asked, feeling relaxed and tired and warm.

"I thought that was obvious," Hawke said with a laugh.

Anders felt him settle down slowly on top of him, wincing a little at the weight. He was about to tell him to roll over when he felt…

Oh.

Oh Maker.

With only two thin, yet expensive, pieces of fabric between them, there was no hiding it. Hawke's arousal pressed against his ass. His own very nearly sprang to life. The nights they spent together were more comforting, more reassuring than anything. Any touch was hesitant, testing, as if neither could believe the other was real and not an illusion. This was…

"Is it all right?" Hawke asked, a slight apprehension in his tone.

"Yes," Anders breathed.

Hawke moved slowly at first, rolling his hips forward, thrusting against him. Anders was pressed into the bed with every motion. He gasped, and Hawke must've realized he was crushing him a bit, sliding off to the side. He pulled Anders with him, hand on his hip as he continued the slow, agonizing grind. Anders gripped the pillow, pushing back against him. Hawke's fingers moved to the ties of Anders' pants, then stopped.

Anders whimpered. "Please."

Hawke unlaced his ties, pushing the fabric down, and his hand slid in. Anders' hips bucked forward, then pushed back, and Hawke groaned.

"Anders," he whispered.

Anders shivered. He'd heard his name many times before by Hawke, yelled as a warning to duck or spoken as an enthusiastic greeting. He'd never heard it like that. The breathy wanting, the desperate need. He closed his eyes, hand coming to rest over Hawke's as he wrapped his fingers around Anders' erection.

"I want…" Anders said quietly, as if speaking louder would break the moment.

"Shh, just feel," Hawke said. "Don't think."

Anders gave himself over to the feeling of Hawke. Strong, muscled arms holding him. Hands capable of such destruction so gentle on him. He pressed back, wanting to give Hawke that same pleasure, and was rewarded with a quiet moan, a breath along his cheek. He felt Hawke's beard scratch roughly against his shoulder, Hawke still kissing, still biting softly. It was impossible to say how long they continued, moving against one another.

"I want to see," Anders gasped. "I want to see you."

The feeling was too close to his dreams, being tucked in Hawke's arms and he'd wake up, cold and alone, wanting. Hawke moved away, and Anders rolled to his back, realizing self-consciously that his bottoms were still undone. Hawke straddled his thighs again, eyes flicking down, a feral flash across his face.

"Sexy," Hawke said approvingly.

Anders blushed, feeling vulnerable and exposed. Then Hawke leaned down and kissed him softly, and the apprehension vanished. Hawke settled back again, reaching up and untying his own bottoms. Anders' breath hitched as the fabric parted. He reached up, fingertips ghosting along the shaft. Hawke groaned.

"Anders… tease."

Emboldened by the reaction, Anders shifted down, then lifted his head, licking the tip of Hawke's cock, eyes closing with remembrance. It had been years since he'd done this, and while rusty, he knew he was up to task. Hawke grunted, and Anders felt a pillow suddenly behind his head, supporting his neck. It was the encouragement he needed, and he parted his lips. Hawke shuddered above him, and Anders lost himself to the taste, the feeling. He brought his hands up, resting on Hawke's thighs which strained with the effort of keeping himself upright. Anders pulled back.

"Sit back."

There was a scrambling of movement, shedding of clothing and inhibitions. Hawke sat back, leaning against a bedpost, legs spread, cock hard, eyes half-lidded, wanting. Anders moved to his hands and knees, settling himself between Hawke's legs. He darted forward, kissing him deeply before lowering his head. Hawke's own thumped against the wood as Anders' mouth enveloped the tip.

"Oh flames," Hawke hissed. "Fuck, Anders."

It was real. It wasn't a dream. Hawke was here, one hand tugging at his hair, the other stroking his shoulder. Anders swallowed, moved lower. One hand steadied the base of Hawke's cock while the other held his hips in place. He was out of practice, it had been too long, and he wouldn't be able to perform all the tricks he'd once perfected.

_Just need to practice more,_ he thought, and he smirked, knowing the thought was entirely his, not Justice's.

His jaw ached by the time Hawke was ready to come, but he didn't care. Hawke warned him, but Anders only redoubled his efforts. The hand in his hair pulled almost painfully, and he swallowed the salty taste. Slowly he moved back, tongue flicking the slit, causing Hawking to twitch and groan.

"Ngh," he managed. "Anders…"

Anders sat back on his heels, watching as Hawke came down from his orgasm. Skin flushed, eyes closed, lips parted. His entire body was limp, relaxed. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked at him. Anders smiled, feeling himself blush a little. Hawke was surveying him like a predator, and it made him feel… good. Wanted.

"Lay back," Hawke ordered.

"You don't have to return the favor," Anders assured him, but moved back.

"Want to," Hawke grumbled, coming to kneel above him, leaning down, kissing him.

They kissed slowly, neither in any real hurry, when a thought crossed Anders' mind.

"Mm. Hawke. Garrett," he corrected, pushing him up. "Have you ever done this? With another man?"

Hawke grinned. "No. So you can tell me if I'm wrong."

Anders was about to protest, about to tell him again that he didn't need to, and then Hawke's mouth was on his cock and he forgot how to say no.

"Oh… oh sweet Andraste, please. Ngh, that! Do that again!"

Hawke hummed and flicked his tongue across the tip. Anders had to keep himself from thrusting up into his mouth, gripping the expensive sheets, breath coming quick and fast. "Hawke, Hawke please," he begged.

The suction increased and Anders wrapped a leg around Hawke's back, heel digging in. He reached out and found Hawke's hand, an anchor for him to hold onto amidst the storm. Hawke wasn't as skilled as previous lovers, but he listened to the noises Anders made, what made him moan, what caused him to gasp, to plead.

"Hawke! – Garrett, stop… stop, I'm going to-"

He looked down and through heavily lidded eyes he saw Hawke dip his head lower, cheeks hollowing as he sucked harder. Anders came, a rush of curse words mixed with affections spilling from his lips. He wasn't even sure what he was saying; it could've been a forgotten spell or even part of the Chant of Light he'd learned in his childhood. All that mattered in that moment was Hawke's mouth on him, his hand clutching tightly.

When he opened his eyes, Hawke was above him. He closed them again just as quickly, kissing him, tasting himself on Hawke's lips. Hawke settled down next to him after, and Anders turned, head resting on his arm tucked under him.

"I love you," Anders said, breathless.

Hawke looked up at him, smiled. "I love you, too. What?" For Anders had started to laugh.

"I'm sorry," Anders said. He laid a hand on Hawke's chest, playing with the sparse, dark curls. "It still feels like I'm going to wake up."

"I'm real," Hawke assured him. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"I can't imagine how tired you'll get of telling me of that."

"Would it help if I sparked you with a bit of electricity every time you asked?" Hawke joked.

Anders scowled but with no real rancor behind it. "I'm not a dog that needs training."

The mabari, hearing the word 'dog', perked its head up, nails clicking on the floor as he came over to Hawke's side of the bed. Anders shrank back, not wanting another sloppy kiss; he'd avoided the creature as much as he could over the last few days. But Hawke dropped a hand on his head and scratched him behind the ears.  
"Who's a good doggie?" Hawke cooed.

"You never use his name," Anders said.

"He's usually so in tune with me that I don't have to. Isn't that right, Filet?" Hawke said, his tone affectionate.

Anders looked at Hawke, amused. "You named your dog Filet?"

Hawke returned the look. "And you named your cat Ser Pounce-a-Lot."

"He was a noble beast befitting that name!" Anders said, affronted.

Hawke laughed and kissed him on the forehead before sitting up. "I'll have Bodahn bring up a bath. Then, breakfast."

"You spoil me," Anders said, watching Hawke pull on a robe.

Hawke turned, smiling. He leaned over and they shared another kiss. "I want to."

Anders sighed, watching him leave, Filet following behind. With some effort, he pulled on the discarded pajama bottoms. As comfortable as he was with Bodahn, some things were best left private. He was just reaching for the pages of his manifesto when he heard a shouting outside the door. Frowning, he picked up one of Hawke's shirts from the floor and tugged it on before going to investigate.

Hawke was standing, arms crossed, while another man Anders recognized as Hawke's uncle was shouting at him.

"Well, I don't know where she is!" Gamlen was saying. "She was supposed to come by this morning like she does every week."

"To give you _my_ money. Maybe you shouldn't take loans if you can't settle debts," Hawke growled. He looked at Bodahn. "Have you seen my mother?"

"She left early this morning, messere," Bodahn said.

Anders walked down the steps slowly, unsure if it was his place to get involved. He'd only met Gamlen once, if one could call being eyed derisively in the man's home "meeting" him. Gamlen looked over at him, eyes flicking up and down, and scowled. Hawke glanced over his shoulder.

"Everything all right?" Hawke asked.

Anders nodded. "You?"

"My uncle seems to be under the delusion that I'm hiding my mother from him."

Gone was the soft, tender tone from a few minutes ago, the gentle looks and whispers. Anders recognized the deep, hardened voice that Hawke used with those who annoyed him. He'd heard it most often when Hawke addressed his brother. Anders stepped down from the bottom stair and closed the short distance, placing a hand on Hawke's shoulder. Gamlen continued to give him a dirty look, and Anders knew what he was thinking.

Who is this man in my nephew's home, wearing his clothing, mussed hair. And then Anders realized he hadn't yet healed the bite marks Hawke seemed so fond of making on his neck. He allowed himself a smirk.

Gamlen turned back to Hawke. "Well, at least we know who wears the pants in this relationship," he grumbled. "If you see your mother, tell her I need to talk to her."

"She might be with her suitor," Bodahn piped up.

They all turned to look at him, and he rocked a bit on his heels, looking uncomfortable.

"Suitor?" Hawke asked. "Mother didn't tell me she had a suitor."

"Did you tell her about me?" Anders asked quietly.

Hawke looked at him. "Well…" he muttered, a bit guiltily.

"She received those white lilies on the desk there. I put them in water myself," Bodahn said.

"White lilies?" Hawke asked, looking at the vase. He frowned, as if remembering something.

"Bah," Gamlen said. "Maybe she just took another path to Lowtown. I'm going back. Tell her I want to speak with her if you see her first." He turned and left.

"What is it?" Anders asked.

Hawke turned to him, but kept his eyes on the flowers. "Ser Emeric was following up on what he thought was a string of serial murders. Aveline said he was just crazy. But I did some investigating. A man called DuPuis, but I don't think he was behind it. I might have been wrong…"

Anders frowned. He remembered the visit to the Gallows to talk to Emeric; he'd taken the time to check in with Alain. But he hadn't heard about Hawke investigating anything. "Another task by the City Guard? Can't any faction in Kirkwall solve their own problems without your help? You keep putting yourself in danger, you're going to get killed."

Hawke lifted Anders' hands, kissed his knuckles. "This is worth looking into. We'll get breakfast on the way."

"On the way where?" Anders asked as Hawke climbed the stairs back to his bedroom.

"On the way to the Gallows," Hawke said, and disappeared.

Anders sighed, running a hand back through his hair. "Of course the Gallows," he muttered, and followed Hawke.

They dressed quickly, Anders pausing only to fumble with the tie on his belt. Hawke helped him, giving it an affectionate pat.

"Don't know why they make these things so bloody complicated," Anders muttered.

"High fashion in Kirkwall is a pain. At least it's clean," Hawke reasoned, and tugged him out.

They stopped by the Hanged Man on their way to the docks, Hawke raising a hand in greeting to Varric as they entered his suite. Varric had looked up briefly, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, nodded, then looked back down at his paperwork.

"Something up?" Hawke asked, gesturing to the piles of papers in front of him.

"Merchant's Guild," Varric muttered, annoyed. "Never mind that. I assume you're here because you heard the news?" he sighed, removing the reading glasses and sat back, folding his hands over his chest.

"News?" Hawke asked. "No, I was coming by hoping to get some help with an issue. Remember Gascard DuPuis?"

"The twitchy nobleman with the penchant for wearing women's clothing?" Varric asked. "Vaguely. I thought the Guard cleared him. Didn't you tell Emeric about his uh… transgressions?"

"Transgressions?" Anders asked, feeling like he was getting only half the story. What had Hawke been up to while he was busy with the underground?

Varric looked at him, about to speak, then stopped. A smirk crossed his face. "Get into a fight, Blondie?"

"What?" Anders was confused. He'd been getting enough sleep, eating better. He couldn't imagine he looked too ruffled.

Varric gestured to his own neck, and Anders realized too late that he still hadn't healed the love bites.

"Shit!" he said, rubbing his neck, healing the marks quickly. He felt himself blush, and heard Varric chuckle. "Shut up!" Anders snapped.

Hawke sighed. "This isn't the time."

"Sure, Hawke," Varric said, but he was still smirking as he got to his feet. "So did the Templars arrest him or is that our job now?"

"I might have been wrong about him," Hawke admitted. "We were on our way to talk to Emeric. My… mother received white lilies this morning."

Varric frowned, picking Bianca up and slinging her across his back. "You don't think she's in trouble?"

"Bodahn said she had a suitor," Hawke said, and led the way out of the tavern. "She'd been talking about remarrying. I gave her my blessing, thought she needed to get out more, socialize. It could be unrelated."

"But you think otherwise," Varric said. "Maker's breath, Hawke."

Hawke went silent, and Anders knew what he was thinking. He hoped Emeric would be able to shed a little more light on the situation. They turned the corner and saw Gamlen a few feet away, hand gripping a boy's collar, shoving him against a wall, yelling at him. Anders recognized him at once. Lirene's son.

"Hey!" he shouted, and ran forward. He grabbed Gamlen's shoulder and shoved him away, using a bit of force magic in his anger.

Gamlen stumbled.

"What are you doing?" Anders asked, putting himself between Gamlen and the boy, glaring at him.

Gamlen scowled. "Not your affair, _mage_ ," he spat.

"It is," Hawke said, coming up behind, eyes narrowed. "And watch your mouth, Uncle. Another body floating in the bay will only give Aveline a headache."

Anders wondered if the threat was idle. It was terrifying and comforting to think Hawke might make good on it, should Gamlen press him. But Gamlen didn't.

"The boy saw Leandra and he won't tell me anything else."

Anders looked down at him. "Gabe, did you see her?" he asked.

Gabe kicked his feet a little. "Maybe."

Anders fished a coin out of his pocket and handed it to him. "It's important."

The coin disappeared quickly into Gabe's dirty tunic. "There was a man. He had blood on his clothes. They were expensive clothes, like what you're wearing now, but different colors. He was stumbling around like he was drunk, then he fell. The lady helped him up and they went off that way," he said, pointing.

Anders looked.

"Blood trail," Varric said. He walked over, leaned down to inspect. "Not that fresh, but we might be able to follow it."

"Thank you," Anders said. "Tell your mother I'll talk to her soon." He let him go before turning to Hawke. "Lirene's son," he said by way of explanation. "He wouldn't lie."

Hawke nodded. "Let's go."

Gamlen scoffed. "You really think you'll find anything?"

"Mother might be in danger. Go back to the estate and wait for me," Hawke ordered, and turned to follow Varric before Gamlen could respond.

Varric was a dwarf of many skills, tracking being one of them. Anders was glad for that, as they followed him. He wouldn't have been able to see the subtle specks of blood and discern them from the rest of the dirt on the street and on the walls of the buildings. The trail led to the foundry district to a ramshackle building, the door hanging off its hinges.

"It looks long abandoned," Anders noted.

"Good place to start looking then," Hawke said. He grabbed the door, his hands alighting with magic, and ripped it away, tossing it over the side wall, where it splashed into the bay.

Varric and Anders exchanged a look of worry before rushing after him. Footsteps through the dirt and more blood trailed to a trap door. Without stopping, Hawke pulled the door up and climbed down. Anders lit his staff to provide light through the dim. They were moving too fast for stealth anyway, and Hawke didn't seem to care to launch a surprise attack. 

"Wait!" Varric yelled.

But it was too late, Hawke hadn't seen the trap and he screamed in pain as the iron teeth snapped shut around his calf.

"Fuck! Get it off!" he snarled, trying to pull away.

Anders rushed forward, grabbing his shoulders. "Stop it! You'll make it worse! Just hang on."

Varric was already crouched, small knife in hand as he worked the pin.

Anders moved his hands up, cupping Hawke's jaw. "Focus on me, love," he said.

Hawke grit his teeth, groaning, gripping Anders' robes as Varric finally released him. He stumbled, Anders holding him upright.

"Lean on me," Anders said, and Hawke held onto his shoulders as he knelt down.

The fabric hung in tatters, the flesh shredded and bleeding. Anders winced and immediately brought his palms up, pressing his healing spell into his leg. The bone wasn't broken at least. The skin closed up and bruises faded. Anders breathed a bit more magic into it to relieve the pain, and stood. Hawke stepped down, putting weight on it, testing it, and nodded.

"Thanks. Let's go."

And he was off again before either Varric or Anders could stop him. The path led to a room that opened up into a facsimile of a cozy sitting room. A fireplace, two plush chairs, end tables, two tall bookshelves, and a portrait hanging over the mantle. Off to the side, a dirty, broken bed. It would have looked perfectly normal if only it hadn't been situated in the middle of a filthy abandoned foundry. Strewn about were various odds and ends, books, dying flowers, bits of clothing, papers, and-

"Is that… human flesh?" Varric asked, recoiling. "Ugh, what in the hell is wrong with this guy? Still think DuPuis is innocent?"

But Hawke wasn't paying attention to Varric, he'd moved through the mess, eyes on the portrait. Anders followed his gaze. At first glance, he thought it was a painting of Hawke's mother. On closer inspection, he could tell it wasn't quite right – the eyes were the wrong color, cheekbones slightly sharper, chin a bit pointier.

"A wife?" He ventured. "Or a sister?"

Hawke didn't answer either of them. He immediately sprinted off to the only door in the room.

"Hawke!" Anders called and followed quickly, Varric behind him.

They raced the length of another hall, through another door. He skidded to a halt, banging into Hawke who'd stopped short, and looked. At the far end of the room, a man knelt by a chair that faced away from them. Even though they couldn't see her face, a woman sat in the chair – Leandra? Was there still hope? The man was a mage by the looks of him, dirty tatty robes, grey hair, a gnarled staff strapped to his back

Another man stood a few feet away, dressed in the fashion of a Kirkwall noble. He too wore a staff, and an expression of rapt interest. Suddenly he looked over. "You," he said, looking at Hawke, and smirked.

"DuPuis," Hawke growled, removing his staff, but Varric was quicker. 

A _twang_ from Bianca, and DuPuis's eyes widened in disbelief. He dropped his staff, reaching up to clutch at the arrow now protruding from his throat. He stumbled, fell to his knees, and dropped to the ground, dead. Anders felt his heart pounding, and gripped his own staff, waiting. The other man hadn't moved to defense.

He laughed though, and got to his feet. "I didn't need him anyway. He was a worthless apprentice. And likely would have killed me for the information he was seeking. But he was good about bringing me… necessary parts." He looked at Hawke, smiling. "I was wondering when you'd show up. Leandra was so sure you'd come for her."

Anders saw Hawke's fingers twitch, and did not stop him as he stepped forward toward the man. He did, however, cast a subtle shielding spell, in case the man attacked first.

"Let her go," Hawke said. "And I'll consider not killing you." His tone stated otherwise. 

The man laughed. "You will never understand my purpose. Your mother was chosen because she was special, and now she's part of something… greater."

The woman stirred, and Anders immediately felt something wrong. Something dark. Shadows swirled around them and he felt the Fade pulling at him. He was sure Hawke felt it too, though his eyes stayed on the woman as she stood, stumbling.

"I have done the impossible," the man was saying, his voice raising, almost yelling now. "I have touched the face of the Maker and lived!" He cackled, and the woman turned around.

"No!"

The cry came from Hawke, ripped viciously from him as Anders realized that the woman was Leandra. Mottled grey skin, dressed in a moth-eaten and moldy wedding dress. Crude stitches held her hands to her wrists though they were coming apart, more of them decorated her neck, and Anders tried not to think about this crazed lunatic sewing together body parts to create… This. This undead… thing. Using Hawke's mother's head. He'd been witness to necromancy but never like this. Raising corpses, skeletons, with blood magic was done though never easily. It took powerful magic, and bringing back the dead was an affront on nature and magic itself. This man had taken something pure and turned it perverse.

Hawke pointed his staff, a raging fireball heading right for the man. The man laughed and deflected it easily, the fire dissipating at once.

"Oh shit," Varric said, and Anders looked.

A half dozen shades solidified from the shadows. Hawke was already moving, hands together as the demons started closing in on them. A crackle of magic in the air, Hawke's cry, and Anders only had just enough time to raise his staff, casting a shielding cage around them as a firestorm rained down with vengeance. Varric turned from the heat, backing into Anders to get away from both the liquid fire and the shades. But Hawke wasn't stopping, seemingly fueled by his rage. He spun back toward the man, hand out, lifting up, then bringing it down quickly. The spell took the man by surprise, the telekinetic magic grabbing him out of thin air and slamming him against the ground. Hawke did it again, then used a force wave of air to throw him fifteen feet into a wall where his body crumpled. He groaned, stirring.

Hawke strode forward, staff raised as the man reached for a knife. Hawke brought his boot down hard, crushing his fingers, causing the man to howl in pain. He shoved the tip of his staff into the man's face and with a desperate, angry cry, a burst of light shot through the wood where he gripped it, out the top of the stone. Amplified by the magic in the stone and at such a close proximity, the spell exploded the man's skull immediately, leaving behind nothing but the bloodied stump of his neck. Anders let his shielding spell fade, shaking. Next to him, Varric was coughing from the smoke.

Then Hawke was moving again, letting his staff drop as he fell to his knees, gathering Leandra to his chest. Anders approached slowly, hesitating. Hawke touched his mother's face, her white, wide eyes gazing up with only the barest recognition.

"I knew you'd come," she said in a rasping breath. "My baby boy… all grown up."

"Don't move," Hawke said, and his voice tore at Anders' heart. "We'll fix you. We'll heal you." He looked back at Anders. 

Anders felt his chest constrict. Hawke was looking at him, pleading with him, green eyes filled with tears. He wanted nothing more in that moment to be able to grant Hawke his wish, but Leandra was beyond even his magic. She was dead long before, brought back only by necromancy.

"I… I'm sorry," he said, voice catching as he started to cry, overwhelmed with empathy for the man he loved. "The necromancer, his magic was keeping her alive. This… it's beyond my skill."

"Shh," Leandra whispered. "Don't fret, darling." She tried to lift a hand, but lacked the energy.

Hawke took it, pressing it to his cheek.

"That man would have kept me trapped here," Leandra croaked. "But you freed me. I'll get to see Bethany again. And your father. But you…"

"I'll be fine, Mother," Hawke whispered. "I'll take care of Carver. I promise."

Leandra managed a weak smile. Her eyes slid to Anders, and Anders felt paralyzed with sorrow.

"Take care of my son," she said, her voice barely audible.

"I will, I promise," Anders said.

Leandra looked back at Hawke. "You've always made me so… proud."

Her eyes closed slowly and her body went limp. Hawke let out a shaking sob, bringing her to his chest, holding tightly. Anders hesitated. He looked back at Varric, who shook his head and turned away, unable to say anything. Anders took a step forward, then another, and knelt down. He touched Hawke's shoulder.

"Garrett," he whispered.

Hawke looked up at him, and Anders had never before seen him so vulnerable. His heart broke, and he found himself wrapping an arm around him. Hawke slowly reached up, releasing Leandra, to turn into Anders' embrace. Anders wasn't sure how long they stayed there, his arms around Hawke, Hawke gripping onto him. He wished he could say something to ease the pain, to take it all away with a spell. But not even magic could fix grief, not even magic could repair the anguish from the loss of a loved one. And Hawke had lost more than most. So Anders stayed quiet, holding him.

Slowly, Hawke moved back, wiping his face, sniffing. "We have to bring her back," he whispered.

Anders nodded. "We'll find something to wrap her in. I'll stay with you," he assured him. "Varric!"

Varric emerged from the door at the end of the room, having given them their privacy, and awaited orders.

"Is there a… sheet or blanket or…?"

Varric nodded and disappeared again before returning with a bloodstained sheet. He and Anders stretched it out and carefully wrapped Leandra's body, Hawke watching numbly. With some effort, Anders lifted her, and Hawke stepped forward.

"I can do it," Hawke said, and took her.

Anders kept a hand on Hawke's shoulder as Varric led the way up. The morning had gone, giving way to noon, and dozens of people milled around the docks. They paused, and Anders looked down at Varric.

"Maybe… maybe get… Aveline. The Guard. They'll be less conspicuous. Give more privacy," Anders said, then looked at Hawke.

Hawke nodded. Varric left. Very gently Hawke laid the body down, slumping next to it. Anders knelt next to him, rubbing his back slowly.

"I should have been faster," Hawke whispered. "I should have been able to save her."

"It's not your fault," Anders insisted gently. "She wouldn't want you to blame yourself."

"You don't know my mother," Hawke snapped.

"You're right," Anders assented, not feeling the least bit offended. Hawke was angry, he needed to take it out on someone, and he would be that person for him, if Hawke so wished it. "And I'm sorry I never will. I know nothing I say will change it… I'm just… I'm sorry."

Hawke shook his head, bringing a hand up to cover his face.

"You were lucky to have her as long as you did," Anders continued quietly. "When the pain fades… that's what will matter."

"A mage did this to her," Hawke said, dropping his hand. His brows were knit, he was frowning. "My father fell to blood magic. Bethany took her own life. And Carver joined the order to stop things like this from happening. Maybe the Chantry's right." Hawke sounded defeated. "Maybe we are a danger to ourselves and everyone around us."

Anders knew there was nothing to his words. "A madman killed your mother. Magic had nothing to do with it," he said gently. "Blame the Templars for your sister's death and your father's grief. I know you're looking for someone to be angry at." He reached out, cupping Hawke's cheek, bringing him to look up at him. "If it helps, you can take it out on me."

Hawke shook his head, taking his hand. "No. You didn't do this. It was him. It was because she… looked like someone. He _was_ mad." He paused, then said, "Thank you."

"Of course," Anders said, settling down, pulling Hawke to lean against him. "I'm here. For whatever you need."

They sat like that for a bit longer, Anders holding him, neither saying anything. Varric returned with Aveline and two other guards. Aveline had a pained look on her face.

"Hawke. Hawke, I'm so sorry."

And Hawke stood, still silent. He walked up to Aveline, looking up to meet her eyes. He was quiet, but Anders could see the hurt there, the betrayal. He didn't have a chance to ask though, as Hawke was walking away. Anders looked to Varric.

"Go. I'll take care of this."

Anders gave him a grateful look and followed Hawke.

"She could've stopped this," Hawke said, winding his way through the Lowtown market. "She knew about the murders. Ser Emeric told her about them. He was linking their deaths. He asked for my help and I looked into it. Not far enough though. And Aveline thought he was crazy."

Anders could only imagine what Aveline would have to say about this, and promised himself he'd go with Hawke should he confront her on it. Everything seemed secondary now to Hawke's grief, and he would make sure Hawke wasn't disturbed. Not by Aveline, the Viscount, the Templars, anyone. They reached Hightown and Anders followed him inside the estate.

"There you are! What took you so damned long, boy?"

Gamlen. Anders clenched his fists.

"Leave him alone," Anders said.

"Stay out of this," Gamlen spat, looking back to Hawke. "Well? Did you find her?"

"Mother's dead," Hawke said, his voice flat, emotionless. Saying it made it real, and Anders could see Hawke's shoulders start to shake a bit.

Gamlen looked like he'd been struck in the face. "Dead… That man, the one that gutter rat talked about. He did it?"

"Yes. I killed him," Hawke said in the same, hollow tone.

"Not fast enough!" Gamlen said. "If you were quicker, if you'd stopped him sooner!" He advanced on Hawke.

Anders stepped smoothly in front of Hawke, glaring at Gamlen. "Don't even try it," he snarled.

Gamlen backed off, obviously not wanting to start a fight with two mages. He looked at both of them, angry, then dropped his gaze. Hawke put a hand on Anders' shoulder and stepped forward past him. Gamlen was crying now.

"Why… why her? Why Leandra?"

"She's gone," Hawke said, taking his uncle by his shoulders. "Would knowing why really help?"

Gamlen shook his head. Hawke looked to Bodahn, who'd been standing silently in the doorway, pained expression on his face. Hawke gestured at Gamlen.

"See to it my uncle gets everything he needs. Make up a guest room."

"No," Gamlen said, shaking his head. "No. I can't stay here. Not in this house. I have to go. Be alone."

Hawke squeezed his shoulders. "I'll send word for the funeral."

Gamlen nodded and Hawke let him go. Anders watched him leave, then turned back to Hawke who was already walking toward him. Anders opened his arms and embraced him tightly.

"I'll help," he promised.

Hawke's hands gripped his back. "Thank you."

"What do you need? Anything," Anders said.

"A drink."

"Here, or elsewhere?"

Hawke was silent for a moment. "Here."

Anders glanced over to where Bodahn still stood. "Bring a few bottles of whatever's strongest up for us, please?"

Bodahn nodded and hurried off to fulfill the request, and Anders guided Hawke up the stairs to his bedroom. He swore to the Maker that he would remain at his side, no matter what the next few weeks brought.


	4. Chapter 4

Anders had no love for the Chantry building, no matter how aesthetically pleasing the architecture. But the Kirkwall Chantry was grey, like all the other buildings in central Hightown, the only thing setting it apart being that it was the biggest, greyest one of all. He avoided it for many reasons, the painful memory of Karl's death being one in a long list. But today he put aside his misgivings for Hawke. In fact, all of Hawke's friends were there, along with several dozen others. He assumed they were people who knew Leandra when she was younger, who'd just started reacquainting themselves with her.

He sat next to Hawke – at Hawke's insistence - through the funeral, listening as that Starkhaven prince spoke about the Maker's love and how Leandra was safe at his side. Anders held his tongue; this was no place to speak his own mind about the views he held regarding the Andrastian religion. He looked back, taking note of how Merrill, Isabela and Fenris stood in the shadows, keeping out of sight. Varric sat on Hawke's other side, and while some of the mourning nobles gave him odd looks, most knew him as someone with connections to the Merchant's Guild among others, and did not comment. Aveline stood to the side with a guardsman Anders recognized by sight but not by name.

And then it was over, and people were standing, coming over to offer their condolences. Hawke gripped Anders' sleeve.

"Don't even think about leaving me," he said through gritted teeth.

Anders stood awkwardly as nobles approached, shaking Hawke's hand, calling him, 'Garrett' and 'Serah Amell'. Hawke patiently corrected each and every one of them.

"No, I won't be taking my mother's maiden name," he said for the tenth time. "My father was a good man."

And no one dared challenge him. It wasn't a secret that Malcolm Hawke was an apostate. But they either were too impressed by Hawke's change in fortune, his mother's return to high society, or out of simple respect for Leandra. Anders shoved away the nasty thought that it had more to do with the first two than the last. If Hawke hadn't earned his fortune and estate, he would be another Fereldan dog-lord to them, his mother just the center of a decades-old scandal. 

A family approached, as dignified and haughty as the others. Anders barely paid the parents any mind, but the way their daughter gripped Hawke's hands set his teeth on edge. Maker, was he going to get jealous every time someone looked Hawke's way? Touched his arm or hands? Flirted with him? They were all grieving, touch was comfort. But the way she said, "I'm so sorry, Garrett," and leaned up to kiss his cheek made Anders feel like an awkward third wheel.

"Thank you, Ruby," Hawke said, and pulled his hands away from her. He turned to Anders, gesturing. "This is my…" He stopped, looking at Anders.

"Friend," Anders finished, shaking hands.

Hawke frowned ever so slightly. "Anders, these are the Rhinehardts. My mother grew up with them."

"Pleasure," the man said, and gave Anders an appraising look. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the name."

Ruby tilted her head. "Aren't people from the Anderfels called that?"

"How astute of you," Anders said coolly.

Hawke cut in. "Thank you for coming. If you'll excuse us." He took Anders by the arm and led him away, nodding at those who offered their condolences. "This is so bloody awkward," he sighed. "I only vaguely know most of these people."

"You knew that girl fairly well," Anders prompted, keeping his voice even.

"Mother pushed me at her," Hawke said. "It wasn't my choice." And he pulled him up the stairs, toward a door.

"Where are we going?"

"It doesn't matter. Away from that lot."

It was a small storage room, shelves on the wall, a few crates piled up. It smelled slightly of candlewax and incense. Not the worst place to hide, Anders thought. And he had a lot experience with that.

"Are you-"

But Anders couldn't finish the sentence; Hawke was kissing him. It was chaste, loving. Anders wrapped his arms around him and Hawke relaxed, head dropping to his shoulder. In the three days since Leandra's death they'd been busy with organizing the funeral, dealing with the investigation, and learning the blood mage's name – Quentin. Further evidence had turned up Ser Emeric's corpse in a back alley in Lowtown, and Hawke had shouted himself hoarse at Aveline the previous night. 'Irresponsible' was the most used word, while, 'stubborn bitch' had snuck its way in his ranting. Aveline tried to defend herself, but Anders stepped between them and she left, glaring at both of them.

It did not improve his opinion of her.

"I did this all for Mother," Hawke said quietly. "For Mother and Carver. A year serving with the Red Iron and that bastard Meeran to get us into Kirkwall. Busted my ass to get on that expedition, and for what?"

Anders frowned. He was leaning with his back against a wall, Hawke against him, hands on his waist. He felt Hawke's shoulders slump, could feel how tired he was, how drained. He held him tighter, one hand moving up to run his fingers through Hawke's hair.

"You've earned your position. Your home. Your fortune. How many others can say that? You've given the other refugees hope. If a Fereldan like them can gain money and power and influence, they have something to work for."

"I never wanted it," Hawke said quietly. "I was… we were comfortable where we were before the Blight. And we came to Kirkwall on Mother's suggestion. She wanted this place for us. And now she's gone and Carver's in the Order of all things."

Anders kissed the top of his head. "Your brother might be a sanctimonious prick but he's still family, right? And he hasn't given your name to the Knight-Commander." _Or mine_ , he thought, but didn't voice it.

"I know."

There was a soft knock on the door and Anders looked over, Hawke lifting his head to glance back as well. The door opened and Varric was there, one hand over his eyes.

"If pants are off, I don't want to know," he said.

Hawke actually chuckled. "We're both decent, Varric."

Varric dropped his hand and smirked at them before clearing his throat. "Not that I'm not happy for the two of you and all, but the crowd is thinning out." He gestured a thumb over his shoulder. "Hanged Man?"

Hawke looked back at Anders. "Would you come?"

Anders nodded, unwilling to let Hawke out of his sight just yet.

"And the others?" Hawke asked Varric, looking back to him.

"Already heading there," Varric said. "I figured you wouldn't mind. Though a part of me was a little disappointed you didn't have the elf speak to the crowd instead."

"That would've been the gossip for days," Hawke agreed, but there was a coolness to his tone. "Missed opportunities, I suppose."

"What about the rest of your mother's mourners?" Anders asked, following him out.

"They don't need me around in order to honor her memory," Hawke said, keeping his head down as they left the Chantry.

A light drizzle started sometime during the service, a warning of an oncoming summer storm. The Hanged Man was nearly full, the buzz of talk and clinking of glasses a nice contrast to the quiet murmurings of the funeral. In the corner furthest from the door, they easily spotted Isabela, Fenris and Merrill with mugs already in front of them. As they approached the table, Merrill stood.

"Ir abelas," she whispered, hugging him.

Hawke returned it. "Thank you for being there, Merrill. It meant a lot."

Isabela stood as well and hugged him, kissing his cheek. "If you need anything, just say it. She was a good woman, your mum."

Hawke offered her a small smile, and then his eyes slid to Fenris, who hadn't gotten up. "I hadn't expected you to be there."

Isabela, sensing the tension, tugged Merrill off to the bar saying, "We'll bring you drinks."

Varric glanced from Fenris to Hawke and Anders, raised his eyebrows in a bewildered expression, and followed them.

"I received the invitation." Fenris said. "If you wish me to leave, I will."

Anders bit his tongue. Hawke sighed and sat across from him, tugging Anders down to sit on the bench next to him.

"No, I don't want you to go," Hawke said. "I meant it when I said you'd always have a place at my side."

Fenris looked up, and Anders frowned. He felt Hawke's hand slide over and take his, and he squeezed it. Fenris nodded, then looked at Anders.

"Whatever you have to say-" Anders started.

"If you hurt him-" Fenris said at the same time.

Hawke pinched the bridge of his nose. "Both of you. Stop. Just for today."

"My apologies," Fenris said, dropping his eyes again. He sipped from his mug.

"Of course," Anders agreed. Then, to Fenris, "Perhaps a truce. For now."

He might have imagined the twitch of Fenris' lips. He wasn't even sure the elf knew how to smile. 

"A truce," Fenris repeated. "For now."

"Praise the Maker," Hawke said, rolling his eyes. He reached for the deck of cards and glanced over to the bar, catching Isabela's eye.

Taking the all clear, she gathered up their drinks and she, Merrill, and Varric returned. The tension ebbed as they drank and gambled. Anders relaxed, unable to help a little smile every time Hawke's hand dropped to his knee, a reassuring squeeze, as if Hawke was making sure he was still there.

"So," Isabela said, tossing down another card. "When did you finally confess your undying love for one another?" She looked up, catching Anders' eye, and winking.

Anders felt his face grow hot and quickly looked down at his cards.

"Undying love?" Merrill asked, looking around. "What? Hawke and Anders?"

Hawke grunted. "Your turn, Varric."

Varric chuckled. "If you wanted to keep it a secret, Hawke, maybe you should stop giving each other doe-eyed looks and secret smiles."

Merrill covered her mouth with her hand, beaming as she swayed happily in her seat. "Oh! That's adorable. Congratulations! Wait, is that the proper thing to say? It is, isn't it?"

"Yes, kitten," Isabela said. "But we should stop or Anders might explode with embarrassment. Now play your hand."

"Hawke."

The table turned collectively and Anders frowned, rising first, dropping his cards on the table.

"You've got a lot of nerve," he said evenly, clenching his fists.

Aveline looked at him coolly before turning to Hawke. "Can we talk in private?"

"How about you leave him alone for a bit?" Anders countered.

"Anders," Hawke said, touching his hand. "It's fine." He drained his mug and stood. "I'll be just a minute." And, seeing Anders' worried expression, added, "I promise."

Anders frowned, but nodded, accepting the reassuring squeeze of his hand and watched Hawke leave the tavern with Aveline.

"What was _that_ about?" Isabela asked, looking at him.

Anders sighed, sitting down. "There was a bit of a… yelling match. Aveline's not exactly the most subtle person. And Hawke…"

"Is a stubborn bastard," Varric finished. "What's the juicy gossip?" he pried, sitting forward, folding his hand. "I got nothing. Your game," he said to Isabela.

"If Hawke wants to tell you what happened, he can. It was about his mother. Surrounding the investigation into her death and others."

The door to the Hanged Man banged open with enough force that the chatter died down a bit as heads turned toward Hawke, who stalked in angrily. He looked directly at Fenris.

"I need you with me."

Fenris rose at once, a confused frown on his face. Anders stood.

"What is it?"

"Qunari troubles," Hawke said. "I'll be back soon. It shouldn't take long."

"Not without me," Anders said. "Maker's breath, she couldn't leave you alone for a day? Hawke, are you sure you want to do this now?" he asked, picking up his staff.

"Saemus went to the Qunari," Hawke said. "A convert to the Qun, apparently, and the viscount wants me to check into it because I've had dealings with the Arishok."

"Saemus…" Anders asked. "His son?" He knew the name, but Saemus Dumar was nearly a nonentity in his life. Selby had mentioned the possibilities of his ascension to the viscount's office with the death of Dumar and the certainty of his son taking over. The plan was pushed aside; the only deaths they were interested in were those of Templars who were deserving of it. For now. If Dumar's son had converted to the Qun, it removed the ability to get him to the throne. He would have to report that to Selby.

Hawke glanced at the others at the table. Merrill was looking on in interest, Isabela was counting her winnings, determinedly not meeting his gaze, and Varric was shaking his head.

"Hawke," Varric said, leaning forward, elbow on the table, gesturing idly, "you think maybe, just maybe it might be a better idea to sit back down, let Anders get you another beer, and go back to playing cards with us? On today of all days."

Hawke frowned. "No. This shouldn't take long. If he's truly converted, there's nothing we can do and his father will have to accept it. If it's a political play by the Arishok…"

"Then what?" Varric asked. "You'll demand the boy back? He's already on edge from losing his delegate, that business with Petrice and her pet Templar."

Anders looked quickly to Hawke. "Petrice? That Sister we ran into years ago? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It happened weeks ago. And I handled it," Hawke added firmly. "Besides, you weren't exactly forthcoming with everything, were you?"

Anders crossed his arms, meeting his stare. Now wasn't the time to have this discussion, here in the middle of the Hanged Man with their friends watching them. But he couldn't help but feel a bit left out of the loop.

_You were busy with more important things than Qunari and Petrice. What does it matter what Hawke does in his free time? You need to focus on your own goals, and let him have his._

It was an irritating thought and he felt Justice's influence behind them. More than that, the truth of the words stung. While Hawke was more than willing to assist him, he was obviously important if the viscount was asking after him personally. The city needed him, and he leapt to its defense on the day of his mother's funeral of all things. And who was he, Anders, to get in the way of that? An apostate refugee with no real source of income, no title, and a bleak future. He was a criminal. And while Hawke was a mage, it was easier for him to hide his magic behind his coin and status.

"We should go," Fenris said, breaking into his thoughts.

"Are you coming with me?" Hawke asked, still looking at Anders.

Anders pursed his lips, then nodded. "I can't let you go alone."

The corner of Hawke's lips curled up in a smirk. "Fenris is coming."

"My point stands," Anders said.

Fenris scowled and led the way out. So much for truce, Anders thought. Oops. He looked back at the others. Varric was shaking his head again, drawing another card.

"We shouldn't be long," Hawke said.

"Fenris can give your eulogy," Varric said, then realizing it might not have been the most tactful thing to say, he looked up at Anders. "Keep him safe, Blondie. And look out for yourself."

Anders nodded and followed Hawke out. The rain had held off at least, though the wind started to pick up and angry dark clouds filled the sky. Scraps of paper, cloth, and random garbage fluttered through the streets as they made their way down to the docks to the Qunari compound. Anders had passed it on occasion but it was an area that most avoided. The Qunari kept to themselves over the last four years, causing no unrest except with their Tal-Vashoth outlaws along the coast. They hadn't bothered the refugees though there were reports of some joining the Qun in order to escape the brutality of the city.

They approached the gate where a lone Qunari stood guard. He had his arms crossed over his bare chest and despite the light drizzle and swirling winds, he looked completely unruffled. A large, wicked-looking spear was strapped to his back, and he looked down at them, head and shoulders taller than Anders. Hawke looked back, unimpressed and unafraid.

"I have business with the Arishok," he said simply.

The Qunari stared at him a moment longer, just enough to unnerve Anders who was about to suggest that maybe they return to the viscount and tell him to get stuffed, when the Qunari raised a large, clawed hand, and the gate opened.

"All are forbidden except you. For now," he said in a low, gravelly tone.

Hawke's expression remained hardened as he stepped through the gates, motioning for Anders and Fenris to follow. The Qunari's gaze followed them in, and as they passed into the compound, Anders felt his mouth go dry and tried to swallow his nervousness. At least two dozen Qunari, all broad shouldered, towering, slathered in red war paint, watched them closely. Their expressions were impossible to read, and most carried similarly large spears or two handed broadswords. They were bred for one purpose: battle. Anders winced as the gate creaked shut behind them, but followed Hawke to stand at the foot of a large staircase. At the top, a large carved throne – something the Qunari brought from their ship? – upon which one of them sat. His large red leather pauldrons gave him the distinct impression of looking broader and more impressive than the ones that stood around him.

"Serah Hawke," he greeted, and Anders was taken aback at just how deep his voice was.

"I'm here about the viscount's son," Hawke said at once.

"Are you?" the Arishok replied, though he didn't seem surprised at all. "In four years, I have made no threat, and fanatics have lined up to hate us simply because we exist."

It was true enough, Anders thought. And Sister Petrice had been the prime evidence of that. He wasn't surprised that the Chantry felt intimidated by the Qunari presence, especially with people – both refugees and Kirkwallers alike – turning from the Andrastian religion and looking to the Qun. He suspected that Dumar's son converting was a rather large slap in the face to the Chantry.

_Good._

A smirk would've accompanied that thought had he not believed the expression might offend the Arishok.

"The son has made a choice," the Arishok was saying. "You will not deny him that."

Anders looked to Hawke, who was nodding. "I accept that, but you have to admit that it's a bit convenient. The viscount's opposition will see his office as weak."

The Arishok leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. "And?"

Hawke frowned. "This could cause trouble in the end for you. If another viscount is appointed, they might not be as accommodating as Dumar has been."

"I do not fear the whole of them together, and it is not my role to reject the free choice of viddathari. The son responded to his own demand of the Qun. He is neither my slave nor my prisoner."

Anders shifted uncomfortably as the Arishok sat back again. If Dumar's son made a willing choice to convert, then not only was there nothing that Hawke could do about it, there was nothing that he _should_ do about it. He was about to say as much to Hawke, to tell him that he'd go with him to tell Dumar to deal with his own problems, when the Arishok was speaking again.

"He is not even here. He went to his father. Ask the viscount why he would send you and a letter both."

"That… seems strange," Hawke said. "Are you sure?"

"They are meeting at the chantry. A last pointless appeal, I assume," the Arishok assured him.

"The Chantry," Anders muttered. "Not exactly a neutral meeting ground. And if Dumar didn't send that letter…"

"There's a good bet Petrice is behind it," Hawke finished.

Anders could see a muscle in Hawke's jaw clench. The Arishok was frowning now, eyes narrowed.

"A suspect in many things," he agreed. "If she has threatened someone under my command again, there is only one response."

Anders didn't even need three guesses to know what he meant. 

"I'll go to the Chantry. I've no love for Mother Petrice, but if we can avoid a war…" Hawke trailed off, waiting for a reaction.

The Arishok pointed a long, clawed hand at Hawke. "This is the last insult I will suffer, Hawke. I will be watching. Viddathari are of the Qun. This offense will have an answer."

Hawke inclined his head slightly, then turned on his heel, Fenris and Anders following.

"Varnell is dead," Fenris said. "We dispatched their group. The viscount and the grand cleric were told of the zealots."

"That doesn't mean anything was done about it," Hawke said. "Let's just hope we get there and find it's all a misunderstanding."

A large streak of lightning shot through the sky. A few seconds later, a thunderclap. They quickened their pace through Lowtown as it started to rain more heavily. By the time they reached Hightown, Anders was a sodden mess. His robes dragged him down, the rich fabric dragging along the stones. Fenris's hair stuck to his forehead and he wiped it away irritably. Hawke alone seemed unaffected by the downpour, and pulled open the chantry doors.

All was quiet inside, the candles giving an eerie glow. Outside, the storm raged on, casting sharp shadows on the walls whenever a bolt of lightning struck. The mourners from hours ago had long since left, and evidence of the funeral had been cleared away. On the dais above, in front of the large ceiling-height statue of Andraste, a single figure knelt as if in prayer. Hawke drew his staff, and Anders did the same. Fenris held his sword loosely at his side, and together they carefully walked up the stairs.

"Saemus?" Hawke called.

A boy, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties though it was difficult to tell in the dim, knelt on the rug. Hawke approached cautiously. He reached out, touched his shoulder, and Anders realized at once that the boy was dead. His body slumped, fell to the side, then to his back. His throat was slit, one clean slice, the front of his silken doublet soaked in blood. His eyes were open, staring, like two bright blue gems. Anders' stomach roiled. He'd held no affection for the boy, but the damage was done. A needless death.

"Serah Hawke."

Anders looked up. Though it had been years since he'd seen her, he recognized Petrice right away. Her short blond hair and pointed face hadn't changed much. She wore the robes of a revered mother now, and he wondered just how she'd managed to get that title. A Templar stood next to her, along with a handful of Kirkwallers holding crude weapons – daggers, iron swords and wooden shields, and one with a tired looking bow. 

Beside Anders, Fenris spun his blade once, bringing it up to a fighting stance, his lyrium markings flashing brightly in the dark. Anders readied his staff, tapping it gently on the ground, bringing to light a repulsion glyph. It wouldn't stop an arrow, but if the group down there decided to attack under some misguided notion that they could win a fight against two mages and a skilled swordsman, they were sorely mistaken.

"Look at what you have done," Petrice was saying, pacing now slowly. "To pounce upon the viscount's son, a repentant convert in the chantry itself? A crime with no excuse. Your Qunari masters will finally answer."

Hawke straightened, fists clenched. "Are you mad?" he bellowed. "Your plans have fallen to outright murder? What does this solve, Petrice? All this will do is make people hate you!"

"Hawke," Fenris said sharply.

The crowd was spreading out, moving into position to flank them up the stairs. Anders turned to the left while Fenris mirrored him. It seemed, for now, the truce was back on. Petrice was talking again, spouting madness about faith, about how the death of Saemus would cause the city to rise.

"Don't you realize what you've done?" Hawke said, gripping the bannister, glaring down at her. "You're not going to get the Qunari thrown out! You're going to get a slaughter on both sides!"

"To die untested would be the real crime!" Petrice cried. "People need the opportunity to defend faith!"

Anders watched as two men wielding swords came up his side. They weren't guards, weren't thugs. They were just citizens, just people who probably had families and jobs. They'd allowed themselves to be led into thinking that this was all worth dying for. Some fanatical Chantry nutjob with a vendetta against the Qunari who, until recently, had posed no threat. And as the first man leapt to strike him and was cut down easily with a bolt of energy from his staff, something inside him changed, and he came to a realization.

He pushed it from his mind for now, focusing on dispatching the other man before turning. An arrow had struck Hawke in the shoulder; it protruded from his robe, a small dark red stain on his soaked tunic. He didn't seem to pay it any mind as he deflected another with his staff, then knocked back the archer with a force blast that threw her into a wall. She lay unmoving, and it was difficult to tell if she was unconscious or dead. Behind Anders, Fenris had easily put down the three fanatics, the stone steps wet with blood.

Anders holstered his staff and hurried to Hawke, who winced as he turned away. Mother Petrice had disappeared along with the Templar.

"Hold still," Anders said. "We need to remove the arrow first. Fenris…"

Fenris took Hawke's arm in one hand and wrapped his other around Hawke's chest, holding him tightly from behind. "Do it quickly," he said.

Hawke braced himself, and Anders gripped the shaft, pulling it swiftly from where it was lodged in his shoulder. Hawke cried out, and Anders immediately dropped it, pressing both palms to the wound to heal it and ease the pain. Fenris stepped back and Hawke rolled his shoulder.

"Lucky shot," he muttered, massaging the spot.

"You were lucky it didn't hit you somewhere more vital," Anders scolded. He wanted nothing more than to leave, to go back to Hawke's estate and change out of his waterlogged, heavy robes, sit in front of a fire and think.

Before Hawke could say anything, Petrice was coming down a set of stairs that led down from the Chantry's dormitory. She was preceded by an older woman with grey hair drawn up in a severe bun. Anders knew of her; Grand Cleric Elthina. He'd considered approaching her to talk to her about how the mages in the Circle were being treated. Ever since he learned that Divine Justinia and Knight-Commander Meredith had rejected Alrik's heinous plan he'd been thinking about how to obtain an audience. Unfortunately this was not the time. With several dead or unconscious people around them, the viscount's son being one, he deigned to stay quiet.

"Do you see, Your Grace?" Petrice was saying as they descended.

Hawke carefully stepped over the bodies to meet Petrice and Elthina on the ground floor. Anders and Fenris reluctantly followed a few feet behind.

"Traitors," Petrice said, "attacking the very core of the Chantry! They defile with every step!"

Anders felt his temper flare. Beside him, Fenris growled low, hand still clutching his sword. Hawke however, crossed his arms and waited.

"There is death in every corner, young mother," Elthina said gently. "It is as you predicted. All too well."

A small sliver of panic shot through Anders like lightning in the night sky. If Petrice managed to convince Elthina that they were responsible for this, for death of the viscount's son, the consequences could be insurmountable. He swallowed hard. He was already a fugitive. Killing the grand cleric and a revered mother wasn't something he wanted to do, but if his hand was forced… But that would mean taking Hawke down with him. Or would Hawke blame it all on him? Use him as a convenient excuse and tell Aveline it had been all his doing? He wanted to think that Hawke would come with him. They were friends – lovers, now. But they hadn't been together long. Would it all end now?

Hawke uncrossed his arms. "Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly. "It's a pleasure to see you again though I wish the circumstances were different."

Petrice's jaw dropped slightly and Anders was reminded of their first meeting when she'd found out Hawke had previous dealings with the Arishok.

"You should know the truth of what's happened here tonight," Hawke continued.

"Don't you spout your Qunari filth!" Petrice spat. "This is a hand of the Divine!"

"I have ears, Mother Petrice," Elthina said evenly, glancing back at her. "The Maker would have me use them. Unless I am mistaken, Serah Hawke has not converted to the Qun, and is a faithful of this church." She looked back to Hawke.

"I've not converted," Hawke confirmed. "The Qunari wouldn't have provided half a nice a ceremony for my mother as the Chantry did this afternoon."

"May her soul rest at the Maker's side," Elthina said solemnly.

Anders was confused, emotions swirling inside his head. In the time he'd known Hawke, he'd never heard him hold anything but derision for the Chantry. But here they were, soaked to the bone, standing in the Chantry amidst several corpses and a crazed mother, and Hawke was having a polite conversation with the grand cleric about his mother's funeral. It was insanity. He thought he might laugh.

"Viscount Dumar's son is dead," Hawke said, looking up at the dais briefly. He frowned. "Killed here in your name."

Elthina raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure my name won't like that. Petrice?"

Anders noted the lack of official title as Elthina addressed her. 

Petrice faltered, shaking her head a little, not meeting Elthina's eyes. "Saemus Dumar was… a Qunari convert. He came here to repent and was murdered!"

"It's a ruse, Your Grace," Hawke said calmly, and Anders marveled at his self-control. "Saemus was killed to set people against the Qunari. He joined the Qun willingly."

"This is no longer a matter of heathens squatting in the docks!" Petrice insisted. "People are leaving us to join them!"

"She's lost it," Anders muttered.

"One wonders if she ever had 'it' to begin with," Fenris said quietly.

"How many more would follow in the viscount's son's footsteps?" Petrice continued.

"As many as would want to go, I suspect. And we would pray for them like any other." Elthina had turned fully to address Petrice now.

"They deny the Maker!" Petrice's voice rose loud enough that it was heard over a clap of thunder that rumbled the Chantry's walls.

"And you diminish him," Elthina said sharply, though she did not raise her voice. "Even as you claim his side. Andraste did not volunteer for the flame." She turned back to Hawke. "Serah Hawke, you act on behalf of the viscount?"

Anders once again held his tongue, though it was difficult. If the viscount had left Hawke alone, gotten someone else – a guard, as it was their duty – to go after Saemus, to follow up here in the chantry… But Hawke was nodding.

"The young mother has erred in her judgment."

"That is quite the understatement," Fenris said flatly.

Elthina either did not hear him or chose not to acknowledge it. "A court will decide her fate. The Chantry respects the law, and so must she."

"I'm sure that will come as a great comfort to the viscount," Anders snapped.

"Grand Cleric?" Petrice asked.

But Elthina had already turned and started up the stairs.

"Grand Cleric!"

Petrice whirled on Hawke and opened her mouth to say something, to likely blame him for her impending incarceration, but before she could utter a word, there was a soft _thwump_ and an arrow was buried in her chest. Anders' eyes widen and he turned to look at the source. A Qunari was already loosing another arrow which caught her between the eyes. He looked at Hawke directly.

"We protect those of the Qun. We do not abandon our own."

He disappeared, and Elthina's voice came through the dim, from the top of the stairs; she'd seen it all.

"Please. Send for Viscount Dumar."

Hawke let out a breath as Elthina turned the corner, out of sight. He ran a hand through his damp hair and turned. Judging from his expression, he wasn't quite sure what to say. Neither was Anders, but he reached forward to touch his arm.

"There'll be guards posted in the courtyard, even in the rain. I'll go."

Hawke nodded gratefully, and Anders left. He was glad to be out of there, at least briefly and even with the storm. He found a guard beneath an overpass and briefly relayed what happened. The guard took off at once for the viscount's keep, and Anders darted back inside. He unbuckled the heavy robe which weighed three times as much, soaked as it was, and squelched through the chantry. Hawke and Fenris were moving the bodies from the dais, all except Saemus's, and laid them out. The archer was still alive, dazed and terrified, keeping her eyes downcast.

"Hawke," Anders started. "I…"

The chantry door burst open. Viscount Dumar, his seneschal and three guards, all drenched from the rain, ran in. Dumar stopped in front of Hawke, who looked up to the dais.

"I'm sorry," Hawke managed, before Dumar was off, running faster than a man his age had right to.

Hawke hesitated, but followed. The seneschal looked as if he were going to say something, but Fenris stepped to intercept him, and he thought better. Anders leaned against a wall holding his robe, silken shirt soaked and constricting. Fenris folded his arms, looking down over the corpses. The guards looked as though they wanted to say something, to question them, but did nothing.

"The grand cleric is upstairs," Anders said finally, addressing the seneschal. "She'll tell you everything you want to know."

Hawke hurried down the steps, greeted the seneschal with a handshake, other hand gripping his arm. "He needs a moment, Bran."

The seneschal nodded, tight-lipped. "Of course. And you?"

"I'd just like to go home, if that's all right. I'll give a statement in the morning if it's necessary. You know where to find me."

Bran nodded again. "Of course, serah."

Hawke released him and turned to Anders and Fenris, gesturing them to the door. "So much for that," he said, sounding defeated.

"It is a shame," Fenris agreed somberly.

"I expect Varric will have an 'I told you so' waiting for me when he finds out. Thank you," he said to Fenris. "Are you going back to the Hanged Man?"

"No," Fenris said, creaking the door open a bit and looking out at the storm. "I will return home."

"You could come back to the estate," Hawke offered.

Anders frowned but kept quiet. He wasn't looking forward to spending an evening with Fenris, not when he had so many questions for Hawke. He ached for a hot bath and a good meal, not a night of defending himself and his magic.

"No. That would be… unwise. But I thank you for the offer. I will be at the mansion should you have need of me."

He was about to leave, then stopped and looked directly at Anders. Anders braced himself.

"…Good night," he muttered quickly before disappearing through the doors.

Anders blinked.

Hawke looked at him bemusedly. "I… guess that fighting against a group of religious zealots is all it takes to bring two people together?"

Anders shook his head. "I wouldn't hold my breath."

He followed Hawke into the night, both of them running through the relentless rain the few blocks to the manor. Hawke fumbled the key but managed to get the door open. The fires were lit and Anders wanted nothing more than to leap into one, the rain causing him to shiver. They removed their boots and undressed upstairs, drying off and changing into dressing gowns.

"Supper?" Hawke suggested.

Anders nodded. "Up here? In front of the fire, preferably. My hands feel like icicles."

Hawke called for Bodahn in order to relay the request, then turned to Anders. "Here," he said, taking both Anders' hands between his. He first brought his lips to them, kissing gently, then held them tightly.

Anders felt warmth radiate through his skin. Satisfied, Hawke worked up one arm, then another.

"I was always better at electricity than fire," Anders admitted. "Mine tended to… spiral out of control a bit."

Hawke smiled and pulled him close for a kiss, then sighed. "I hope it doesn't all go to shit. The Arishok will take this as a grievous affront. And I think the Viscount's reached the end of his rope. Losing his son like that…"

Anders frowned, arms around Hawke's waist. "It was wrong of him to put you in that position. And it's not your duty to be an envoy between Dumar and the Arishok."

"Who else?" Hawke asked, sounding tired.

"Anyone," Anders said. "The Guard-Captain. Aveline should've done it."

Hawke snorted. "She would've cocked the whole thing up even worse, and the Arishok would've sent her head back on a spike. She's not exactly known for her diplomacy skills."

Anders 'hmm'ed. "Don’t expect me to think that would've been such a bad thing."

"She's not a bad person," Hawke insisted. "We just butt heads. And she really doesn't have anyone here in Kirkwall. People are upset with her because she's Fereldan, leading the guard. She's faced a lot of opposition. She might be a bitch-"

"Might be?"

Hawke smiled. "She is. But it could be worse."

"You make friends with the strangest people," Anders said.

"Mm," Hawke agreed. "And I fall in love with those that are even stranger, if you'd believe it."

Anders leaned in slowly, lips millimeter's from Hawke's. "Oh?" he asked, his earlier feelings of doubt slipping away.

"Well, there's this apostate healer that I'm awfully fond of…"

Anders closed the gap between them, kissing him soundly. He forgot about the day, lost in that kiss, Hawke's arms around him tightly. The door opened and there was an embarrassed clearing of the throat as they broke apart. Bodahn stood, carrying a tray. Hawke gestured him in and he set it down before leaving with a bow, shutting the door.

"Must remind him to knock," Hawke said.

They dined, Hawke filling in the gaps of what had happened with the Qunari, about Petrice spreading sedition and Varnell inciting people to rise up. He talked about the missing Qunari delegate that had promised peace but ended up in a slaughter in some rat hole in the Undercity, and how Hawke relayed the news to the Arishok. Anders scowled at that.

"Unless you want to remain joined at the hip," Hawke said, amused by his expression. "I can handle myself in these situations."

"I worry for you."

"I'm not the one running a free clinic in the sewers with Templars, Carta and Coterie at my heels," Hawke said, eyes leveled at him.

"More Templars, less Carta and Coterie," Anders replied.

"Varric… may have had something to do with that," Hawke relented. "Still, Templars."

"I've always had and always will have Templars at my heels, love. It's something you get used to."

Hawke frowned, looking at his empty plate. "You shouldn't have to." He looked back up, and Anders saw that determined look he was familiar with. "You'll continue to stay here."

"Hawke-"

"I won't go checking up on you every minute of the day," Hawke promised. "And you don't need to do the same for me, either. But I'd feel better knowing you had a safe place to return to." He stood and crossed the room to the nightstand, retrieved a key, and held it out to him.

Anders frowned, taking it. "To the estate?"

"Specifically the basement. The trap door we took. That way if you ever need a quick escape, or just don't feel like tripping over the drunks in Darktown to make the trek up to the front door, you can come and go as you please."

Anders swallowed, looking at the small iron key in his hand. The last several days had almost been a fluke. They needed a safe, quiet place in the wake of Alrik's death to avoid arousing suspicion. Then Leandra was murdered and Anders wasn't going to leave Hawke alone after that. He figured that he would return to his clinic, and when Hawke needed him, he'd call upon him. But this key…

"You should put it in your pocket so you don't lose it," Hawke said.

"Are you sure?" Anders asked, and then realized he'd asked it again. He laughed a little and put the key in his bag.

Hawke took his hands, drawing him to his feet, then backwards toward the bed, kissing him. Anders sighed happily, returning the kiss. He would think on the events of that evening in the morning. Right now, Hawke held his attention and, more terrifyingly, his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

_Out today, looking into a few things for Varric._

_Back by supper._

_Love,  
G_

Anders tucked the note inside his robes, smiling. He'd woken up alone with a slight moment of panic before seeing the paper on the pillow next to him. Bodahn had left a simple breakfast and tea, and Anders sat, contemplatively picking grapes from a bowl. At Hawke's insistence, he'd brought up his meager possessions and was given space in the armoire for them. His journals, pamphlets he'd collected over the years, and the pillow his mother embroidered for him. It was the only thing he'd brought with him after escaping the Circle, and it remained at the very bottom of his pack buried along with other painful memories.

With Hawke out for the day, he would busy himself reconnecting with Selby. Not wanting to be seen leaving Hawke's estate this early in the morning lest the neighbors start talking, he took the basement route and made his way to the docks where he found her casually leaning against a shipping container, arms folded, watching the workers unload.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, moving up beside her.

Selby nodded at the workers. "Smugglers."

"Hello to you too," Anders said, though he didn't take offense. Selby had always been very no-nonsense and he could appreciate that. "What about them?"

She uncrossed her arms and pushed away from the container, gesturing for him to follow her into a warehouse. It was warm and dusty inside, but private. She turned to him, frowning.

"Word got around about Ser Alrik."

He wondered if that would come up, and felt slightly uncomfortable under her gaze. "It was a reconnaissance run. And I was careful."

"So careful they had to identify Alrik by his lieutenant insignia. I heard they were picking up pieces of him days later. Now that route's watched. What were you thinking?" She stared up at him, voice calm and even, but her tone was that of utter disappointment.

His stomach twisted up in guilty knots. Of course the Templars knew about the route; lyrium smugglers had built the tunnels to supply them without the Chantry knowing. But lyrium smugglers wouldn't do what Justice did to Alrik and his men. He should've gone back after to clean up, to dump Alrik's body elsewhere. He was sloppy and now others would pay for it.

"How bad is it?" Anders asked.

Selby scowled. "I don't think the ones accepting the smuggled shipments told Meredith where the bodies were found. More likely they moved them to the Gallows dungeons. The courtyard was on double patrol the other day according to Thrask."

"He's out?" Anders asked hopefully.

"For now. Said with Alrik's death there was no evidence or argument against him. He received docked pay for a month and needs to lay low a bit. But if other Templars know about that route out, we'll need to find an alternative."

"I'll do whatever you need me to," he said at once, needing to make amends.

"Good. Because I've been thinking. There's a shipment of lyrium comes in to the Gallows every week. It gets checked over and signed in by recruits, but a little bit off the top goes missing every now and again. Thrask gave me a name of the Templar that's been looking into it – Conrad Vernhart."

"Not familiar with him," Anders said.

Selby waved a hand. "He's nowhere near Alrik's level of depraved, but this one, he likes his violence. If we could stir up some trouble with him, get him under suspicion..."

"Sounds like you've got ideas," Anders said, liking the way this was sounding.

"We'd need to plant a seed first. Get his fellow Templars doubting him. Then I can organize an extra shipment from the smugglers on top of the regular weekly ones. Pay off a man I know to deliver it directly to him. Maybe even in the mess hall during breakfast."

Anders dug into his coin pouch, taking out five sovereigns. Before Selby could say anything, he pressed them into her hand, closing her fist around them. "That should be more than enough to bribe him. No," he said, cutting her off. "I insist. It's a small price to make up for my neglect. How do we get the other Templars to doubt Vernhart?"

Selby looked at the coins in her hand, frowning. She slipped them into her skirts before looking out the window of the warehouse, eyes following the dockworkers. "Templars like their drink. Either in the Rose or the Hanged Man. Find one in his cups, maybe. Whisper in his ear."

Anders hated the idea of approaching a Templar voluntarily and speaking to them, but it was safer to do it at the Hanged Man surrounded by familiar faces than walking into the Gallows or even the Blooming Rose to find someone gullible enough to buy a made up story about one of their brothers. "I'll do it. It might take a day or two."

Selby nodded, accepting that. She turned back to Anders. "You been all right? After Alrik. They're saying it was the work of a demon. A Circle mage turned abomination."

Her frown made him squirm a bit. Selby didn't know about Justice, and while he trusted her not to spread the word, he did wonder if she would allow him to continue aiding the underground. Justice was dangerous. He, Anders, was dangerous. And he'd already made a critical misstep. "I will be. He had a girl with him, Selby. She was so young and I just got angry." It was an understatement, and Selby might know he was lying, but he hoped she wouldn't press. He changed the subject. "I've been laying low, spending time with a friend of mine whose mother just passed."

"Ah. Hawke."

Anders crossed his arms. Would everyone soon know his personal business? "Lirene's been talking, I see."

"Don't take it personally, love," she said. "It's good to have a man like him at your back. Money and influence in the guard and the order? Can't go wrong."

"I'm glad you see it that way," he said, his uneasiness ebbing. "It seems he's more popular than I thought."

"Mm," Selby agreed, glancing back out the window. The workers were now shouting at one another, a crate broken open on the docks.

"Did you hear about the viscount's son?" he asked.

Selby looked at him, eyebrow raised.

"He was murdered. By a Chantry mother, though I'm sure they'll hush that up."

Selby's eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

Anders shifted a bit. "I was there when it happened. Not the murder!" he said quickly, seeing her look of surprise shift into annoyance. "Afterward. Mother Petrice is the name. She was killed by the Qunari."

Selby pursed her lips together, thinking. "I was wondering when things would come to a head with the Chantry and the Qunari."

"Just… stay safe," he said. "We might see a war soon."

"Life is a war, Anders," she sighed. "Send word with Gabe or Norah the minute you figure out how to drag Vernhart's name through the mud."

"I will."

He touched her arm by way of farewell and left. Perhaps Varric, who spent so much time in the Hanged Man, would have an idea on how to make Vernhart look bad and whose ear to whisper into. As loath as he was to involve yet another of his companions into his own affairs, Varric would be willing and discreet. Before going to seek him out, he made several house calls, checking in on patients and stopping by Lirene's. By the time he arrived at the Hanged Man it was approaching evening. He climbed the stairs to Varric's suite and was surprised to see Hawke emerging, looking red-faced and angry.

"Hawke?"

Hawke shook his head. "Bloody stubborn dwarf."

Anders watched him go, and looked first to Varric's door, then down the stairs after Hawke. With a sigh, he begrudgingly followed Hawke. If he was fighting with Varric, the chances of Anders being able to get any information from Varric was going to be slim. More likely his door would be locked for now while they both settled down. He caught up with Hawke a block away, grabbing his arm to stop him. Normally when Hawke was angry most people avoided him. Anders thought maybe Hawke's 'run headlong into danger' attitude was rubbing off on him.

"Leave it," Hawke snapped.

Anders might have backed off in the past, but now whatever happened, he wasn't going to let Hawke stew in it alone. "Tell me."

Hawke turned sharply, then paused, expression softening at Anders' concerned look. "We found Bartrand."

Of all the things Anders had been expecting, that was very far down on the list. While he and Varric often joked about the things they'd do when they found Bartrand, he'd never honestly expected to see him again. "Not good news, I take it."

"The idol we found, remember it?"

"Difficult not to." Bartrand had left them behind in the Deep Roads for it. He tried not to think about it, pushing the memory of the ill-fated trip far away.

"Apparently it made him go mad. He sold it to someone and came back to Kirkwall looking for it. He… Maker, Anders, he did some… really horrible things. Kept talking about the song. That the idol was singing to him. It was…" He shook his head.

Anders frowned, watching as Hawke shuddered. In the years he'd known him, and more recently in the weeks he'd grown closer to him, he'd only really seen Hawke's resolve falter once and that was behind closed doors after his mother's death.

"What happened to cause the fight between you and Varric?" Anders prompted.

"Varric wanted Bartrand dead. I argued against it and I suspect he didn't like that Isabela agreed with me."

Anders frowned. "It seems odd. Bartrand, he's a dwarf. Lyrium shouldn't affect him like that. And dwarves can't fall to demons. But it does seem that the idol's the key. Did he say who he sold it to?"

"No, just a vague description of a woman. It could be anyone. Varric's going to look into it." Hawke glanced back toward the Hanged Man. "Once he calms down."

"If Varric truly wanted him dead, I'm sure no force on Thedas could have stopped him," Anders said, taking Hawke by the arms and looking him in the eye. "You did a good thing. Varric will see that eventually."

Hawke relented, shrugging a bit and inclining his head. He leaned in close, then stopped, realizing they were in the middle of Lowtown. And while the late hour meant the streets were somewhat empty, advertising their relationship openly wasn't wise. Not with cutthroats and worse around every corner.

"Hawke!"

They turned to see Merrill hurrying down the alley, waving. Anders dropped his hands from Hawke's arms.

"Oh I'm so glad I found you," she said, coming to stop in front of them. She grabbed Hawke's hand in both of hers and tugged fruitlessly. "You have to come to the alienage."

"Why?" Hawke asked, taking a step, then another, allowing Merrill to pull at him. He reached out and grabbed Anders' sleeve, and Anders was forced to go with them both.

"Arianni needs your help. She asked me to come find you. I was on my way to the Hanged Man when I saw you here. It's about Feynriel."

Hawke looked back at Anders who frowned, and no longer needed to be tugged along. They quickened their steps, following Merrill to the alienage, down the stairs. Arianni was pacing in front of her apartment and looked up when she saw them. She rushed to Hawke, then stopped as if thinking better than to touch him.

"You came," she said, worry on her face, but relief in her tone. Something was very wrong. "I was hoping you would. You've done so much for Feynriel already, but…" She trailed off and looked at Merrill.

Merrill nodded at her encouragingly. "You call tell Hawke," she said. "He'll listen, I promise."

"Is Feynriel in danger?" Hawke asked gently.

Anders felt pride in the compassion Hawke showed, at the same time wondered if that compassion would be his undoing. How far could he be pushed by the citizens of Kirkwall demanding his attention and begging his help before he was driven insane by their requests? Anders had seen the pile of unopened mail at the estate, knowing they all couldn't be from Gamlen or Carver or simply well-wishers.

"Two days ago he went into a nightmare and hasn't returned," Arianni said. She wrapped her arms around herself, seeking comfort. 

"He can't be woken up?" Hawke asked.

"The Keeper says he's close to death," Arianni's voice quavered.

Anders could see the tears in her eyes. She was holding back, trying to be brave. He could only imagine her terror. In the Circle, he'd waited while his fellow apprentices would undergo their Harrowing. Others just like him who, while they weren't family, were the closest things he had to it in the tower. One boy, a scared, shaking leaf of a child had been taken for his and it was days before they found out what happened. The demonic possession was so quick and brutal that there was nothing left of the boy when the demon emerged from the Fade. It had taken Knight-Commander Greagoir and three Templars to strike it down. And his own Harrowing – another memory in a long list of ones he'd been so good at compartmentalizing and hiding away – was a horrific experience. If Feynriel was lost in the Fade, he might not make it out.

"I'm hoping you can reach him," Arianni said. "You made a strong impression on him when you rescued him from the slavers."

"Me?" Hawke asked, sounding honestly surprised. "We've exchanged a few letters over the years, sure."

"Don't underestimate the impact you can have upon a person when you first meet them," Anders said, and smiled slightly when Hawke looked back at him. He still remembered that night in the Lowtown alley as if it were yesterday.

"The Keeper says Feynriel's powers are a throwback to ancient magics that once let elves shape the Fade. The only way to reach him is through his dreams."

Merrill nodded, agreeing with this. She apparently knew what Arianni was referencing, but Anders had never heard of any such magic. 

"You mean enter the Fade?" Hawke asked. "That takes quite a lot of power."

"Or blood," Anders muttered, not loud enough for anyone but Hawke to hear.

Hawke frowned. "I assume there's a reason you're telling me this," he said tentatively.

Arianni nodded. "Keeper Marethari thinks an ancient Dalish ritual can help free Feynriel. But someone he trusts must enter the Fade and guide him out."

Anders reached out, gripping Hawke's arm. "Hawke…"

Hawke looked back. "If I can help him."

Anders looked at Arianni, brow furrowed. He understood her need for asking for help. "Why can't you do it yourself? Why do you need Hawke?"

"Anders," Merrill said, almost impatiently.

"What? It's a fair question," Anders replied, feeling annoyed at both elven women now. He moved to stand next to Hawke, dropping his arm.

"I'm afraid he wouldn't come with me or trust me," Arianni responded, looking down, her words betraying her shame. "I've gone to the Dalish to speak with him before and he turned me away. Please, I beg you." And this time she did reach forward and took Hawke's hands.

"Of course I'll help," Hawke said softly. "But… he might already be too far gone."

"But we've got to try!" Merrill said insistently.

"We?" Anders asked.

Merrill tilted her head, looking at him. "Of course! You wouldn't let Hawke enter the Fade alone, would you? I'm going too."

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. First Qunari and now this. When he looked up, Hawke was looking at him hopefully. "You'll need someone experienced in the Fade to come with you."

He didn't entirely trust Merrill to keep Hawke safe. While he found her amiable when it came to light conversations, she'd proven that she was willing to deal with demons. She was a liability in the Fade with her blood magic.

"I've already called for the Keeper," Arianni said. "We need to begin the ritual as quickly as possible."

"What? Here?" Hawke asked.

"She believes that the ritual will be most powerful surrounded by Feynriel's childhood home and memories. Please, come in. She should be here soon."

Arianni opened the door and Anders followed them in. A tattered couch was pressed against one wall while a crate held an assortment of dried fruit and a bowl of tea leaves. A small fire pit was constructed near the window, and a rickety wooden table with two chairs completed the sitting room. The furnishings were sparse, but Arianni was a very skilled knitter, a pretty green throw folded on the back of the couch with several more hanging to cover the stained walls. If not for the dirt floor and apparent poverty, the apartment might have been considered cozy. It was a far cry above the places in Darktown he visited on his house calls, and even a step above other places in Lowtown. Whatever comforts you could cling to in the alienage, he thought. She offered them tea, which only Merrill accepted, and Anders sat next to Hawke on the couch to wait with him.

It wasn't long before the door opened and Keeper Marethari stepped inside. They stood out of respect, and Anders looked her over. She seemed smaller than he remembered, older, though it had only been a few years since he'd last seen her. Her white hair was drawn into a bun that reminded him of the grand cleric. Arianni curtsied as did Merrill. Marethari nodded to both, and cast a quick glance to Hawke and Anders before addressing Arianni.

"I came as quickly as I could. I did not want to tell you your son's condition by letter." She sighed, clasping her hands in front of her as she spoke. "They magic Feynriel possesses makes him what the Tevinters called "somniari," a dreamer."

Merrill covered her mouth in surprise, but the word was not familiar to Anders and when he looked at Hawke, Hawke shook his head a little, indicating he'd not heard of this either.

"Dreamers have the power to control the Beyond." Marethari looked at Anders and Hawke and clarified, "The Fade. They can shape it to their will, and the dreams of those inside it. Feynriel is the first dreamer in two ages to survive."

"But what does that mean?" Hawke asked.

"A dreamer would attract only the most powerful demons. They're usually not strong enough to survive their nightmares, and perish."

Arianni let out a small sob, and Merrill wrapped an arm around her, holding her tightly.

"So we need to find Feynriel before he's attacked by demons," Hawke said. "And then bring him out of the Fade."

Anders scowled. "When you put it like that you make it sound like we're heading to the market to buy milk."

Hawke touched his wrist. "We just need to be careful."

Marethari looked at Arianni. "If you'll excuse us, we need to prepare the ritual."

"Oh," Arianni said, a little unsure. "Of course."

"It'll be fine," Merrill assured her. "I promise."

Anders wanted to tell her not to make promises she couldn't keep, but couldn't bring himself to say it in front of Arianni. Once she was outside, Marethari turned to look at Hawke.

"There is more I must tell you that is not for her ears," she said gravely.

Anders crossed his arms. "Something worse than entering the Fade on a suicide mission?"

Marethari frowned, and Merrill rocked on her heels, eyes downcast. Their relationship at this point was apparently very rocky, and Anders knew he likely wasn't helping matters. He found he didn't care.

"Feynriel cannot become an abomination. The destruction he would cause is unimaginable. A dreamer abomination would be more powerful and more dangerous than the likes of any that the world has ever seen. If you cannot save him from the demons, you must kill him yourself."

Anders felt sick to his stomach. Merrill stopped rocking, turning away a little. And even Hawke had to pause. Anders didn't relish the idea of heading into the Fade in the first place. He had no idea what it might bring out in him, in Justice. But to be told that they would have to be the ones responsible to kill Feynriel should something go wrong? He thought about Feynriel in the Dalish camp now, lying close to death, trapped in a nightmare. If a demon attached himself to Feynriel, the Dalish warriors would have to deal with an abomination. Hawke seemed to come to that same conclusion.

"If he's in danger of falling to a demon, we'll give him a merciful death," Hawke agreed.

"There is something else," Marethari said. "A death in the Fade will make him what your Circle calls "Tranquil." He will be no threat after."

"He won't be anything after!" Anders said at once. The revelation made him ill. "Hawke, you can't do that. You can't kill him."

Anders knew how dangerous abominations were – wasn't he, himself technically one? And he'd very nearly killed a girl with the loss of his control. But to be made Tranquil? He would rather be dead. Feynriel, he was sure of it, would prefer death to tranquility.

"Feynriel wouldn't want that," Hawke said, and Anders relaxed only slightly.

Marethari frowned. "I trust you know that you must do what is best for all of us."

"And for Feynriel," Anders snapped.

"Hawke won't let Feynriel down!" Merrill proclaimed. "And neither will we."

"I wish you luck," Marethari said solemnly.

Anders watched as Marethari performed the ritual, speaking a poem in elven, a dull blue light encompassing the room. He closed his eyes against the intensity of the feeling inside him. It felt like when he cast a particularly difficult spell, pulling at him like the ebb and flow of the tides. Suddenly, without warning, Justice came hurtling full force into consciousness, and he could remember no more.

-

Hawke stumbled forward as he was thrown into the Fade, but kept his feet. He'd been to the Fade only in dreams, and his father always warned against becoming too friendly with anything there. Listening to the stories of his fellow mages who were lost to their own desires or ambition, he vowed never to be so weak. He trained himself every night that he slept, listening to nothing, ignoring whispers of greater power, of money, of status. The first year in Kirkwall the dreams had been particularly difficult to ignore. If he would only submit, just give in, they would provide the coin to release him from servitude. He could give his mother everything she wanted. They could even return Bethany to him, and his father…

He shook his head. To focus on that now would be folly. To his right, Merrill looked dazed but unhurt. He turned to his left and startled. He'd seen this before, his lover's eyes glowing brightly blue-white and pupil-less, cracks appearing in his skin emitting the same light, and the power that radiated from him almost enough to make Hawke shiver. He could reach out and touch him, and it would be holding the potential to destroy a world right in the palm of his hand. It terrified him and angered him.

"I had not thought to return in such a way," Anders said. But it wasn't Anders.

"You…" Hawke started.

"It is good to feel the breath of the Fade again, not the empty air of your world."

That voice. He'd only ever heard it bellowing in anger, demanding the deaths of Templars, had seen this figure cut down Alrik and several of his men as easily as one would swat a fly. He'd been able to talk him down previously; would he be able to do that here, in this spirit's home world?

"You seem calmer here than I've seen you before," Hawke commented. 

If Justice were to lose control, to turn on him or Merrill or Feynriel should they find him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to cut Anders down. More likely he would allow the Fade spirit to destroy him. And then what? Would he, too, become Tranquil? Marethari hadn't spoken of the deaths of normal mages in the Fade, but from what he knew of the ritual performed to create Tranquils (which admittedly was very little, as his father spoke rarely of it), he wouldn't become one. But it would mean losing the opportunity to help Feynriel.

"I am in control," Anders – no, Justice, Hawke reminded himself – said. "Anders is still here, but the Fade is my home, it is where I was created."

Merrill looked on in fascination. She'd never seen Justice, and was about to say something when Justice interrupted.

"I sense Feynriel's mind straining," Justice said. "We will not have much time."

Hawke removed his staff, spinning it once easily in his hand as he looked around. He'd never seen this place, but recognized it by the architecture. It appeared to be a section of the Gallows, grey stone, golden statues of Tevinter slaves hiding their faces. Behind them, a swirling blue void from which they'd entered. He followed Justice, but before they could get too far, Justice flung out an arm, catching Hawke hard in the chest.

In the courtyard in front of them, rising from black mist, a form took shape. It appeared to be a shade, but moved much more slowly, arms stretching as if it had just woken from a deep slumber. It had no neck, its head rising from a lump of shoulder and chest. The skin was taut, black, and looked more like a carapace of a spider than actual flesh. A demon, Hawke could tell that much. It moved, slug-like, dragging its body as it floated toward them, a bright purple light in the center of its face, mimicry of an eye. It had no mouth and when it spoke, it sounded as if the words were simply deposited into Hawke's brain, like a form of telepathy.

"Well…" it said in a deep, unhurried tone that reminded Hawke of someone who was about to fall asleep. "It's rare to see two forgotten magics in one day. It's usually a slow place, the Fade, not many surprises. I wasn't sure I'd like this one… but it has potential."

Hawke realized it was looking at Anders, and a wave of protective anger flooded him. He stepped in front of Anders, staff held tightly in one hand.

"It is a demon of sloth," Justice intoned. "It exists to make men forget their purpose and their pride – do not relax around it. Hold to that anger and focus on Anders if you must."

Justice might not approve of himself, Hawke thought, but he was giving him leave to use Anders as an anchor, as a reminder to why he was here. He was here for Feynriel, for a fellow mage who needed his help. He would not let this demon sway him from his course.

The demon hummed, and Hawke felt it itching inside his brain. "Call me Torpor," it murmured, its voice sounding like a sweet, heavy lullaby. "I have a proposition that might interest you."

"I do not make deals with demons," Hawke said determinedly.

"We could just hear it out," Merrill said, and Hawke had almost forgotten she was there.

He would have turned to look at her, but he was unwilling to take his eyes from the demon. He needed to focus. The Fade shivered around him; it was like looking through the flames of a fire without the heat, blurry and shimmering.

"I could give you what you need…" Torpor said.

"Do not give in," Justice said.

Hawke raised his staff, pointing it at Torpor. "I will not listen."

"Have it your way," Torpor said, sounding as if the entire affair bored him.

Hawke released a ball of fire from the end of his staff, catching Torpor in the chest. It made no noise, simply reeled back, then melted to the floor, and was gone.

"Do not think that it is defeated," Justice said. "Sloth demons prey on the weak, those they find easy targets. You are too strong to be influenced and it will try again with another, less skilled mage."

Hawke supposed this was as close to a compliment he would ever get from Justice. He wondered if Anders had to fight with him regularly, justify his relationship to Justice. How difficult was Hawke making it for Anders to stay in control? It would be a conversation they would need to have once they got out of there. He led them up the stairs and down a hallway, toward a pull of power. The door opened, and Hawke raised an arm against a burst of blue light. Behind him, Merrill and Justice seemed to disappear and he found himself alone but for the two other people in the room.

"Feynriel!" he gasped, stepping forward. 

But Feynriel didn't seem to hear him. He was sitting at a table, quill in hand, while a man Hawke vaguely recognized stood over him.

"That's it, Feynriel," the man said in a strong Antivan accent. "Hard on the downstroke, then lift. Good! I'll have you scribing all of my letters soon. If I'd known you were such a bright lad, I would've brought you into the business years ago."

Feynriel beamed. "Does that mean I can come with you to Antiva, Father? Mother said maybe this summer. Right, Mother?" And Feynriel looked at Hawke.

Hawke was about to correct him when he realized he was part of this hallucination. Delusion? Trick of the Fade? It was with Arianni's voice that he spoke. "Your father never wanted anything to do with you." It was harsh, but harsh truths were necessary in the Fade. "Don't trust him."

Feynriel's smile faltered. He looked down at the letter, then up at his father. "Why are you lying to me?"

Vincento – for Hawke had remembered the slimy merchant's name – glared at Hawke before looking back to Feynriel. "Don't listen, Son. She's always been ashamed of you. She wanted you gone so she could go back to the Dalish. I'm the one who loves you."

Feynriel's brow furrowed and he chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. Releasing it, he said, "But… why can't I remember you?"

"It's a demon, Feynriel," Hawke said. "It wants your power."

Feynriel's eyes widened and he pushed back from the table. "That's right!" he said suddenly, and looked back to Vincento, backing away slowly. "I waited my whole childhood for my father. He never came. You're not my father!"

Vincento growled, the human façade the demon wore starting to shimmer and fade. "Your mother never allowed-"

"My mother loves me! She showed me the letters she wrote you. You never wrote back."

"Focus, Feynriel," Hawke encouraged.

"And it was my mother who taught me how to read and write, not you!"

"Don't…" the demon tried, Vincento's face flickering. "Don't question…"

Feynriel shouted in surprise as Vincento's form disappeared entirely in a blast of light, leaving behind a desire demon. Feynriel ran before Hawke could stop him, and the demon glared from beneath her long dark eyelashes. He was relieved to feel Justice and Merrill's presences behind him, a rush of air as they reappeared from wherever they'd disappeared to. The demon was a perversion of the female form; hooved feet and long tail flicking along the stone, two large twisted horns protruding from her forehead. Her clawed hands ran slowly up over her naked breasts and down her flat, taut belly. Only a crisscross of fabric allowed her any amount of modesty.

"A demon of desire," Justice said, unnecessarily.

"I'm aware," Hawke snapped, irritated. He raised his staff, and the demon laughed, giving him pause.

The sound was lyrical, tempting.

"You've cost me a dreamer, but I can negotiate," she said, pacing slowly. "Tell me, Garrett, what is it you desire? Hm? What leaves you awake at night, wishing you could have?"

Hawke shivered. "No. Nothing. I will not deal with you."

"Do not engage in conversation with it. Strike it down now," Justice insisted.

The desire demon laughed again, stepping forward. "I know what it is."

Hawke swallowed, his knees giving way. Looking up, he saw a face he'd not seen in a decade. His little sister, all smiles and braided pigtails. She looked down at him, grinning, her bright brown eyes shining.

"Bethany?" he whispered.

"Hello, Brother," she said, handing him a flower. He took it with shaking hands. "Did you miss me?"

"I…"

Bethany leaned down and hugged him around the neck, planting a kiss on his cheek and giggled. "It's been ages, hasn't it? We have so much to catch up on!"

This wasn't right. Bethany was dead. He'd found her body. Held his mother as she cried. Helped his father dig the grave. Listened to Carver sobbing in the night, blaming himself for her suicide, wanting to go to his brother, but unable to provide any comfort. And this… this was not Bethany. He stood up with such force that it shoved her back.

"You," he growled. "Are not my sister."

Before the demon could say anything else, he swung his staff from left to right, a wave of ice spikes breaking viciously from the floor. The demon became impaled upon one, and beside him, Merrill let out a cry, unleashing a rock slide that crushed it. The demon screamed in pain and was abruptly silenced. Justice stood by him, impassive, watching him.

"I'm fine," Hawke said, but he was panting a bit, sweat beading on his forehead. He wiped it away irritably. "Let's go, we still have to find Feynriel."

He could feel Justice's eyes burning into him as they walked through the Gallows, searching for Feynriel, and felt angry, ashamed. He'd been tempted and survived. Wasn't that enough for Justice? Did he have to continue to stare, to judge him?

"What?" he snapped, whirling on his heel to face him. It was surreal to see the face of his lover looking at him in such a way. Though their relationship was barely begun, Hawke had spent years figuring out his own feelings for Anders. Which meant watching him. He knew Anders' face intimately, his soft amber eyes that could convey such sadness and concern, or light up when Hawke said something that pleased or surprised him. He knew those lips which he'd kissed many times, the little curl of a smirk or a tug of a frown. To see Justice now, amber giving way to solid, pupil-less bright blue, mouth neither a smile nor a frown, it was unnerving. He hated it.

"You did well," Justice said at last. "Not many mages would have resisted the temptations of that creature."

"Well," Hawke sputtered. "Well then why are you staring at me like that?"

"Because Anders enjoys it."

Merrill actually giggled and Hawke stared, dumbstruck. Here they were in the middle of the Fade, on a very serious mission, and Justice was… 

"Are you mocking me?" Hawke demanded.

And for a brief moment, he saw a hint of that familiar smirk, and it was quickly replaced with Justice's impassivity. Hawke scowled and turned back, walking faster now.

"So you embody the virtue of Justice?" Merrill asked.

"I do."

Hawke didn't hear the rest of the conversation, opening another door into a small courtyard, and the same burst of light enveloped him. He was once again alone aside from two figures. Feynriel stood next to Keeper Marethari, looking unsure but pleased with himself. They were surrounded by ghost-like spirits with no corporeal form. Marethari was speaking, her hand on Feynriel's shoulder.

"My people, I present to you… our hope."

Hawke walked forward, feeling unfamiliar robes swishing around his legs. He recognized them as the ones that denoted the First Enchanter of Kirkwall's Circle. Though he'd never met the elf, he'd seen him in the Gallows courtyard, speaking with Knight-Captain Cullen on occasion.

"His features may be human," Marethari said, "but in his heart beats the blood of the Dales. He came to us to learn his heritage, to release the power from a lineage as ancient as our race."

Feynriel's cheeks turned pink with embarrassment and pride. "I… I don't know what to say."

"That's not the Keeper, Feynriel," Hawke said, with First Enchanter Orsino's voice. 

Feynriel looked over at him. "You… you were the one my mother was going to send me to!"

Marethari smiled evilly, teeth bared. It was a grin that was unnatural and wrong upon her face. "That's right," she said. "He would see you locked up, your gift taken away. The opportunity gone."

"She's a demon, just like that desire demon was trying to make you think your father was there," Hawke tried again.

"He lies!" Marethari hissed. "The First Enchanter is a pawn of the Templars!"

"No," Feynriel said, shaking his head. "This… the Keeper told me this magic was outlawed for a reason. Even the Dalish don't practice it anymore. The Keeper is an honorable woman. She wouldn't lie to me. Get away!"

Feynriel turned and ran, and Marethari's form did not slip away as Vincento's had. Instead, a blindingly bright light burst forth, lifting her body twenty feet into the air. It exploded and splintered and Hawke had to look away. When he turned back, in Marethari's place stood a hulking pride demon. Larger than a darkspawn ogre, its skin was a ridged and jagged purple-black shell. Two long black horns twisted from the back of its head, and like a spider, it had several glittery black eyes that blinked in unison looking down at Hawke. It grimaced, revealing two rows of razor sharp teeth and four fangs two on top and two on bottom that were longer than his forearm. From them dripped blood-red saliva which hissed and steamed as it hit the stones below.

"Hawke!" Merrill said, and took his arm.

Hawke looked back. Merrill and Justice had returned once again, and he was grateful to see them both, hoping it wasn't simply another trick of the Fade.

"With my power joined to his," the demon snarled, "Feynriel would've changed the world!"

"Feynriel wants only his freedom, not your power," Hawke replied. He could feel the pull of that power and fought to resist the temptation. This was no mere sloth demon that could be easily shrugged off, nor desire demon that resorted to trickery.

"Those who are free to choose always want power," the demon laughed. "You think your friends are different?"

Justice moved to stand next to Hawke, as did Merrill on his other side. Hawke felt bolstered by their presence.

"You think this elf," the pride demon said, gesturing to her, "with her innocent face, would turn down a demon? She didn't before."

Hawke looked at Merrill, who was frowning. "I took the spirit's help for the benefit of my clan, not for power."

The demon grinned, revealing those pointed teeth once more. "Would you take what I offered the boy? Scion of the Dalish, savior of all elvenkind?"

Merrill faltered. "Can you… do that?"

"Merrill!" Hawke snapped.

"I am the greatest of my kind!" the demon roared. "Whatever tricks your little pet has taught you will pale in comparison."

"Do not listen to it," Justice said. "It will pervert your desires and consume your soul."

"You're one to talk," Merrill said airily. "You seduced Anders and turned him into what he is now. I wouldn't be like that. I would just be borrowing some power to help my clan."

"I did not seduce!" Justice insisted angrily. "You presume upon the nature of our relationship-"

"Merrill!" Hawke said again, touching her shoulder. "This thing would use you as a shell, you'd lose all control. It doesn't want what's best for your clan!"

"And _you_ know what's best for my clan?" she asked, angry now. "I'm sorry, Hawke, you've helped me a lot but I cannot put you above the fate of my people."

Hawke fell hard to the ground as Justice shoved him back, stepping between him and Merrill. Merrill had drawn a wicked blade, and it struck true in Anders' stomach, blood pouring from the wound. Hawke cried out, staff raised, a burst of energy rushing forward, lifting her up and dropping her to the pavement where she lay, broken and crumpled. Panic rushed through him; was she dead? Did he kill her?

Justice howled as he yanked the knife from his middle, and the wound healed almost at once, leaving a dark circular stain behind. More splinters of bright blue light appeared in his skin, and he turned to face the demon. Hawke crawled to Merrill's limp form but it shimmered out of existence, leaving no traces behind. He looked up as Justice raised his staff to the sky, a crackle of lightning exploding the tip. He wrenched it down and the bolt redirected into the pride demon's face. It screamed and staggered back, bringing up clawed hands to quell the fire.

Justice didn't stop, casting so fast that Anders' hands were a blur, faster than Hawke had seen him move ever before. A cage, a prison of white light enveloped the demon and it roared in fury, trying now to pry the bars apart. Justice spun his staff and slammed it to the ground, a ball of energy that glowed brighter and brighter as it raced across the stone heading right for the demon. Hawke turned from it, arm covering his eyes as the light burned as brightly as the sun. The demon let out a blood-curdling shriek and exploded.

Hawke looked up, scrambling to his feet as Anders staggered a bit. He put his arm around him to steady him, and when Anders looked up, he was still Justice, pupil-less eyes glowing just as blue, though the splinters and cracks in his skin were gone.

"Hawke," he said, and the voice was an eerie mix of Anders' quiet, affectionate tone and Justice's harsh, deep one.

"Are you all right?" Hawke asked, helping him to stand upright.

Justice closed his eyes, opened them, and nodded. "I am fine. We need to find Feynriel before it is too late. Come."

Hawke watched him turn and stalk out of the room, and followed with a backwards glance, hoping that Merrill was all right. Would her death mean Tranquility as well? Would she be safe? He steeled himself and tried not to think about it. Merrill knew the dangers of the Fade perhaps better than he did. Feynriel's safety was paramount. He followed Justice around another corner that spilled out into the main courtyard where they'd first encountered Torpor. Feynriel was there, pacing back and forth wildly. When they approached, he looked up, a pained expression on his face.

"I'm not sure this is real," he said timidly. "If so, it is the second time I owe you my life." He stopped in front of Hawke. "The Fade feels different now. I see the stitches, the seams holding it together. I feel I could wake at any moment." 

"You're more than a simple mage, Feynriel. You're powerful, and you need to learn to control that power," Hawke urged. "You can shape the Fade and the dreams of the people in it."

Feynriel's eyes widened with this revelation. "I… I see why the Chantry fears us. I've heard tales of magisters who stalk their enemies and used their own dreams to destroy them."

Hawke repressed a shudder. He'd had nightmares of his own, seen the deaths of his father, sister and mother. Recently they'd become easier to deal with, falling asleep in Anders' arms, waking and knowing he was there. It was a security that he held tightly to. But Feynriel was alone. He'd rejected even his mother's help. Hawke reached out, gripping his shoulder.

"You _can_ do this, Feynriel. I have faith."

Feynriel frowned, but nodded. "You're right. I must master it, find someone to study under." He sighed. "The Dalish do not have what I need. Perhaps… Perhaps Tevinter. If these powers can be trained, it would be there." He drew his lower lip between his teeth again, worrying it for a moment. "My mother would not look kindly on such a journey. Will you give her my farewell?"

Hawke thought about the warnings Fenris had given about the magisters of Tevinter, the cruelty they showed to slaves and even fellow mages. Feynriel had a good heart, but he was naïve. Would he stray to the ways of blood magic or use his powers to help others? Hawke looked to Justice, who stood with his irritatingly impassive face, arms crossed. If Anders were here, he would ask his opinion. He tried to imagine what he would say. The only other option would be to make Feynriel Tranquil, and Hawke couldn't do that and live with himself.

"I will. But you have to promise to work hard and use your training to help people. Like I've helped you."

"I promise," Feynriel said. "Tell my mother I love her."

He turned, lifted a hand to the air, and opened a rift which he stepped through. Hawke let out a breath, sighing heavily, and closed his eyes. The Fade shifted around him and he was tossed like a boat on the ocean in the middle of a storm. An instant later, he woke up.


	6. Chapter 6

Anders found himself on his hands and knees in Arianni's apartment, shivering and shaking. He immediately grabbed his stomach. Though there was no pain, the memory of having the knife plunged into his stomach was fresh in his mind. His fingers came away wet with blood, but he was uninjured. Hawke knelt down in front of him, helping him to an upright position, and was pushing his hair back, out of his eyes. Anders gripped his arm, smearing blood. Hawke didn't seem to care.

"That was… disturbing," Anders breathed.

"You're all right." And the relief in Hawke's voice was palpable.

Anders looked up at him. "I remember bits. I didn't think Justice would completely take over, but it was different. I didn't feel like I needed to control him."

"We had a civil conversation," Hawke said, helping him to his feet.

"You and Justice?" Anders asked, surprised.

"If you can believe it," Hawke said, and he turned to Arianni, who'd apparently returned to the room while they were in the Fade. "Feynriel will master his powers."

Anders looked around the room. Keep Marethari was standing near the door, arms folded delicately across her stomach. Merrill was sitting on the couch, gripping the cushion, rocking slightly and not meeting anyone's gaze. He recoiled at the sight of her, at the memory of her pushing the knife into him. If it hadn't been him, it would've been Hawke. If Justice hadn't stepped to intervene, then what?

_He might have died._

It was a chilling thought. And why had Justice done that? But try as he might, he couldn't get an answer from the stubborn spirit.

_Fine, have it your way._

"Then he lives?" Arianni asked, tears in her eyes. "You saved him? I cannot thank you enough!"

Before Hawke could say anything else, Arianni turned to Marethari.

"Keeper Marethari, may I return with you to the Sunderlands? I would like to ask my son's forgiveness."

"Of course," Marethari said, bowing slightly. "It was you who chose to stay away."

Hawke touched Arianni's arm, bringing her back to look at him. "Feynriel must go elsewhere to learn how to master his powers. He's going to Tevinter to find a magister to train under. He asked me to tell you and to send his love."

Arianni shook her head. "Then I must go now, so I can see him before he leaves. Perhaps travel with him."

Hawke reached into his coin pouch –

_Bloody, stupid, compassionate softhearted idiot,_ Anders thought affectionately.

-and pressed several sovereigns into Arianni's hand.

"To ease your travels," he said. "And Merrill will look after your home here. Send word for anything you might need and she'll arrange it."

Merrill looked up when Hawke said her name, tears in her eyes, and quickly blinked them away as Arianni looked to her for approval. She nodded, forcing a smile.

"We should leave quickly then," Marethari said. She smiled serenely at Hawke. "I truly did not think what you did was possible. You are a rare human indeed."

Hawke smirked. "Well. I did have help."

"Dareth shiral, Hawke. May the Creators watch over your path. Arianni."

Arianni curtsied quickly to Hawke, reaching out to touch his arm before taking up a bag and following Marethari out into the night. Anders wondered how wise it was for two elven women to travel through Kirkwall in the dark, but he supposed the Keeper would be a match for any would-be muggers. Then suddenly it was him, Hawke and Merrill alone in the room with an awkward silence.

"I am so, so sorry, Hawke," she said, her voice breaking a little.

There was nothing cheerful or naïve to her mannerisms. She seemed tired and broken, and she was crying silently now, her eyes glassy and shining with tears. Hawke stepped forward and she dropped her hands, eyes down, as if waiting for him to yell at her. He took her gently by the shoulders, moved around behind her, and walked her slowly to stop in front of Anders. 

He leaned down to say quietly in her ear, "Apologize to Anders, not to me."

She looked up at him, sorrow and embarrassment on her face. Anders took pity on her, his anger fading, and touched her arm, offering a small smile.

"Abelas, Anders, I am sorry. I just heard what the demon said and I…"

Anders looked at Hawke, who raised an eyebrow, and he nodded before pulling Merrill into a hug. He knew at least in part what she must be going through. While she had friends here in Kirkwall, being around others who weren't your own kind, having left the protection of those who knew you best, it was difficult. And Marethari had barely looked her way, he noticed.

"It's okay, Merrill," he said quietly, gently rubbing her back.

Hawke smiled at him, and Anders sighed.

"We'll walk you home," Hawke said, laying a brotherly hand upon her head.

She smiled sadly, stepping out of their embrace and wiped her eyes. "I have to see to Arianni's things. Just a moment."

They waited while she packed up essential belongings and doused the fires, then walked with her between them across the alienage to her home.

"You know you're always welcome at the estate," Hawke said. "You haven't really come by without an invitation."

"Oh! I didn't want to intrude. I thought it would be rude."

"Isabela does it all the time," Hawke offered.

Anders smirked. "Of course she does." He imagined it would be quite easy for her to pick the flimsy lock on the front door, though he was pleased she hadn't decided to drop by over the last week or two. He didn't desire to have an audience should she waltz in during an inopportune moment.

Merrill bowed slightly. "I will, then. Well. Thank you both. I'm sorry again. Anders, if you need someone to wash that," she said gesturing at the blood mark.

"Oh," Anders looked down. "I think Sandal can handle it."

She nodded. "All right then. Good night."

She disappeared into her apartment and Hawke immediately took Anders around the shoulder and pulled him away. Anders leaned against him, breathing him in, drawing comfort from the closeness.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" Hawke asked, looking back briefly over his shoulder.

"Merrill's resilient."

"And you?" Hawke continued. He let his arm slip from around Anders' shoulder so he could turn to look at him while they walked.

"Exhausted," Anders admitted. "In the Fade, you said you and Justice had a civil conversation."

Hawke grinned. "He even complimented me. I think. It was in a roundabout way. I think it was good for our relationship. Sort of like a kid meeting his boyfriend's father."

Anders shook his head. "Maker, that's an analogy."

They reached the estate and Hawke yawned widely. "Did you eat? I haven't had anything since breakfast."

Anders followed him downstairs toward the kitchens. His stomach rumbled at the mention of food. "Same."

He sat, watching as Hawke moved easily around the kitchen, slicing bread, removing things from the icebox – which he noticed, was cooled by magical ice – and prepared a couple of sandwiches for them. He spoke idly about the day, the errands he'd run, the people he'd helped. Anders listened quietly as he ate.

"What?" Hawke asked.

Anders looked up. "Hm?"

"You've got this look on your face. Not that I mind it. You actually look happy," Hawke teased, leaning over to kiss a crumb off his lips.

Anders laughed softly. "It's this. Sitting here after day like that, after what happened in the Fade, and having a casual conversation about it all. Just the two of us, here in your kitchen."

Hawke reached out, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing along his stubble. Anders returned the smile, dropping his eyes to his plate. He traced the pattern, blue squares on white china, and thought.

"Too normal?" Hawke asked. "Because if it is, we can always go back to Merrill's and have her summon another demon if you'd like. Or we can go outside and find a gang of cutpurses to dispatch. Oh! We can go up to Fenris's place and start an argument about mage rights."

Anders shook his head, and Hawke took his hands, pulling him to his feet.

"Stop worrying," Hawke said, and kissed him.

Anders relaxed, wrapping his arms around Hawke's waist as Hawke held him close. He pulled back, resting his forehead against Hawke's. "It's difficult. You seem to enjoy running into danger."

"And you'll be there to pull me out when it gets too dangerous," Hawke said. "Or Justice will."

"I won't always be there. And… what if it's me who puts you into that situation?"

"You've followed me into the Fade," Hawke said. "And the Deep Roads. I would do the same for you. And further than that."

Anders wanted to believe it, so earnest that Hawke was in his proclamations. "They found Ser Alrik's body," he said, changing the subject.

Hawke chuckled, leaning back, kissing his forehead. "And here I thought I was the one who said wildly inappropriate things during romantic moments."

Anders smiled apologetically and allowed Hawke to lead him from the kitchen, holding tightly to his hand.

"What's the backlash?" Hawke asked, bringing him upstairs.

"They think a Circle mage did it. Likely there will be an investigation. I spoke with my contact." He leaned against the bedpost, watching Hawke undress.

"And?" Hawke prompted. He glanced over at Anders, smirking at bit. "Distracting you?"

"A bit," Anders admitted.

"Well, try not to be. I'd rather stay on Justice's good side," Hawke said jokingly, tossing his shirt in a corner, where a large pile of laundry was growing.

"She has a plan for framing a Templar called Vernhart."

Anders straightened as Hawke approached, clad only in a pair of pants now, and started working the ties to his robes. Hawke smiled up at him, placing small kisses against every inch of bared skin.

"Go on," Hawke said in a low, rumbling tone.

Anders tried to recall his conversation with Selby that morning, but it was difficult with Hawke's mouth on his neck, his collarbone. He let out a small yelp as Hawke's teeth grazed his nipple.

"So," Anders said, letting out a shaky breath as his shirt and robe fell to the floor, "I was on my way to – oh… Maker, that's nice," he whispered.

Hawke had kissed his way down Anders' stomach and was nuzzling his groin through his pants. Anders swallowed, head leaning back against the bedpost. He dropped a hand on Hawke's head, trying to focus as he was relieved of both boots before Hawke started on the laces to his pants.

"On your way to where?" Hawke prompted.

"The Hanged Man," Anders said in a strangled tone.

Hawke knelt up, parting the fabric to his pants and began slowly stroking his cock. Anders reached back with his free hand, gripping the bedpost, trying not to thrust forward.

"Why the Hanged Man?" Hawke asked in an irritatingly calm voice.

"Hnn…" Anders managed, gasping as Hawke replaced hands with tongue and lips. "To find… Templar… to…"

Hawke hummed, no longer able to speak and Anders forgot what he was saying. His fingers twisted in Hawke's hair, urging him to continue.

"Hawke," he whispered. "Hawke… ngh…" He was torn between pushing forward and trying to get away from the overwhelming sensation. Pressing back against the post, he rose on the balls of his feet, knees shaking.

Hawke's strong hands were on his thighs, gripping, kneading the muscles. One slid up, around, cupping his backside. Anders let out a heavy breath, leaning forward now. Hawke's other hand joined the first, and urged him forward.

"Oh," Anders whimpered, and he looked down, hands on Hawke's shoulders. He could feel Hawke's throat constricting around his erection, felt the scratch of his beard against his thighs. Buried as he was, shaking, shivering, he didn't dare move.

Hawke swallowed.

Anders' nails bit into Hawke's shoulders and he grit his teeth.

Hawke swallowed again, and Anders came hard, silently, breathing hitching. He thought he might have blacked out because the next second Hawke was holding him upright, guiding him into the bed where they curled up together. He finally caught his breath and looked up, laughing at Hawke's smug smile. Reaching up, he touched his lips before kissing him softly.

"I thought I lost you a second there," Hawke teased. He shed the last of his clothing, tossing pants and smalls to the floor.

Anders smiled, relaxing against the feather pillow. He slowly drew the backs of his fingertips down Hawke's side, appreciating the subtle shiver it caused. "Where did you learn that?"

Hawke shrugged slightly, inching closer, encouraging Anders' hand. "I might have asked Isabela for tips."

Anders let out a shaky laugh. "Oh Maker, we'll never hear the end of it."

"Worth it," Hawke murmured against his lips, and kissed him.

Anders returned it, one hand against his chest, the other taking Hawke's cock and stroking slowly.

"Mm," Hawke said, pulling back. "Wait." He turned over and opened the nightstand, reached in and withdrew a glass bottle.

Anders raised an eyebrow. "What is that?"

"I went to the Rose," Hawke said without a trace of embarrassment, as if visiting a brothel was a normal errand. "They recommended this."

The cork came free with a pop, and a sickly sweet scent made Anders recoil.

"What _is_ that?" he asked again, wrinkling his nose.

Hawke seemed to have the same thoughts. "Maker, that's awful. It's like a fruit cocktail gone wrong." He slipped from the bed and crossed to the window.

"Hawke, what-"

Hawke opened the window and flung the bottle out. Anders heard a faint crash as the glass shattered on the stones below. Hawke shut the window and twitched the curtains closed before returning to bed, climbing over Anders and kissing him again.

"Mm, okay," Anders said, pushing at his chest. "What was it?"

"Oil recommended by a mouthy elf. I won't listen to him again. Sorry," he added sheepishly.

Anders laughed and kissed his nose. "You know I can make those. With the right ingredients. Ones that don't smell like a rotted floral arrangement."

He pushed at Hawke's chest and Hawke slid off, onto his back. Anders moved over top of him, kissing him before moving down.

"It was a sweet gesture," Anders said. "Let me thank you for it."

He felt Hawke's hands on his shoulders, then in his hair as he lowered his head, taking Hawke's prick into his mouth. Smirking as Hawke moaned, he brought two fingers together, a small spark forming between them and gently tapped the base of erection.

Hawke jerked up, hips thrusting instinctively. "Anders! What… what in the Void was that?"

Anders looked up, pleased to see Hawke leaning up on his elbows, staring down at him, eyes wide, out of breath.

"I told you," Ander said, reaching up, pressing a hand to Hawke's chest and pushing him back down. "I've always been better with electricity."

"Oh… Maker have mercy," Hawke whispered.

Anders grinned and lowered his head again.

-

"Miss, please!"

Anders lifted his head groggily from Hawke's chest. He'd been having a lovely dream about running away with Hawke to somewhere tropical with white sandy beaches and blue ocean waves. The door banged open and Isabela stalked in, followed by a harried looking Bodahn. He was panting, red-faced, and looking apologetically at Anders and Hawke, who had woken when the door bounced off the wall.

"Isabela?" Hawke mumbled.

"Up!" she ordered.

Anders only just had the presence of mind to grab the covers as she tried to pull them away. Hawke scowled, sitting up, yanking them back into place.

"Naked, here!" he growled.

"Oh like I haven't seen _both_ of you naked before," she said, rolling her eyes. "Get up! Fenris is missing."

Anders almost wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but Hawke was pulling away now, legs swinging out over the bed to root around on the floor for his smallclothes. Yanking them up over his hips, he crossed to the wardrobe. Anders groaned and rolled to his stomach, reaching down on his side for his own discarded clothing. Hawke tossed a clean shirt at him.

"Start from the beginning," Hawke said.

"I went over early this morning and the door was hanging off its hinges. He was gone and I followed a trail to the coast. There's a group, I think. Hard to tell."

She had her arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot impatiently as Hawke and Anders dressed. Hawke waved dismissively at Bodahn and the dwarf retreated. Anders sighed and tied his hair back, taking up his staff from its spot near the desk and handed Hawke his own.

"Any ideas who?" Hawke asked, gesturing for her to lead the way.

Isabela hurried out. "No. But he's not exactly wrapped up in anything in the city, is he? Lone elf squatting in a mansion up in Hightown. Nobles are talking but it's not as if they're going to descend upon him with pitchforks and torches."

"Danarius," Hawke said.

"Who?" Anders asked.

"His old master. The mansion belongs to him. Or someone he killed. It's complicated. He could've come back and caught him unaware."

Anders kept his opinions of the matter to himself. While he didn't particularly like Fenris, if he'd been recaptured by his master and Hawke was hell bent on a rescue mission, Anders would be there for back up. Heads turned as they ran through the streets of Hightown, out the front gates and made their way up the coast.

"Slaver pens?" Hawke suggested, nodding at a path.

Anders vaguely recalled the caves they found Feynriel in years ago. Isabela crouched down, her slender dark fingers a contrast to the white sand as she touched an indentation. She stood.

"This way. The trail's almost gone. They must've taken him at least a few hours ago."

"The guards don't pay much attention in Hightown," Hawke said, and started following her as she led them off again. "It would be easy to break in and take him out without anyone seeing."

The trail brought them to a cave where, twenty feet back a locked iron door blocked their progress.

"Give me a light," she said, removing a set of picks from her boot.

Anders held his hand out, a ball of blue light in his palm. Isabela worked the picks deftly and with a soft _click_ the door swung open. Inside, the light was unnecessary. It was stifling hot, the long stone hallway bordered on either side by rivers of lava. Hawke took the lead, staff at the ready. Isabela drew her twin daggers, hanging back to watch their rear.

"Do you think they would hang around?" Anders asked. "More likely they've tossed him on a ship and are halfway to Tevinter by now."

"And we might find clues to his location if that's the case," Hawke said.

There was no doubt in Anders' mind that Hawke, upon finding evidence of Fenris being recaptured by his former master, would immediately take ship and follow. And what would he, Anders, do? Follow? He had an obligation here. The Circle needed him and the others in the underground to aid them. They had to force a change. His latest brush with Petrice and Elthina made him realize that the Chantry might not budge, might not choose a side even in light of Alrik's and others' brutality. Could he leave behind Selby, Lirene, and the others who needed his help to chase after Hawke, who was chasing after someone who hated mages, hated magic?

He hoped he didn't have to make the choice.

They searched room to room until Hawke stopped in the doorway of one. The stench of blood hung thick and heavy in the air, causing Isabela to gag, back of her hand against her nose as she turned away. Anders swallowed his nausea and edged inside. The room was sweltering hot, lit by the same rivers of lava along the walls. He covered his nose and mouth as he stepped inside, approaching a table containing a corpse. The wooden surface was tilted back, a trough underneath to catch the blood that dripped idly into a nearly full bucket.

"Blood magic," he said, recoiling from the stench. The corpse was at least a few hours old and a fresh wave of nausea washed over him. He gagged, stepping away, and looked back to Hawke and Isabela who'd stepped into the room. 

A small voice from the shadows spoke up. "Are… are you here for the magister?"

Anders turned to see a slip of a girl emerge from a darkened corner. She was elven, shorter even than Merrill, but her clothes were clean and well-kept, and she looked terrified. Shaking, she hesitated to approach further, and Anders hung back, not wanting to scare her away.

"Oh you poor thing," Isabela said. "Are you okay?" She stepped forward, and while the girl took an anxious step back, she did not seem as if she were going to run.

"They've been killing everyone!" the girl said, her hands clasped together as if begging them. "They cut papa. Bled him."

Anders' eyes slid back to the corpse. His chest bare, laid open, eyes wide and staring. They were the same color and shape as the girl's. Maker, had they done that in front of her? He looked at Hawke, whose face was stony, staring at the body. Anders could see his chest rise and fall quickly; his anger was palpable.

"Why would they do this?" Anders asked softly.

The girl shook her head. "The magister, she said she needed the power to reclaim what was lost."

"Did you see them bring someone in? Another elf with white hair?" Isabela asked.

The girl nodded quickly. "He had these strange markings. The magister said that his master would be pleased. I don't know why he would leave. The magister is so good to us." She looked over at her father's corpse. "She loved papa's soup."

"Where did they take him?" Hawke growled.

The girl stepped back quickly, and Isabela shot him a dirty look before gently reaching out, palm up, the way one would approach a scared animal.

"You can tell us. We'll take care of you," she said softly.

The girl pointed. Hawke was already moving, Anders following, casting a backwards glance at Isabela, who waved him on.

"You can send her to the estate!" Anders called before hurrying after Hawke.

He was sweating heavily now, the heat of the cave heavy and oppressive. At the end of another long hall, Hawke kicked open a door revealing a large, rectangular room with a high ceiling. It appeared empty except for a torture rack in the middle. Strapped to it, hanging naked, unconscious and limp was Fenris. His head was bowed and Anders noticed his lyrium markings were red in color. No, Anders realized, as the full horror of the scene set in. Someone had tried carving the markings from his skin. He was covered in blood.

Suddenly he felt a tug at his ankle and looked down, realizing too late that Fenris wasn't the only one in the room with them. Black tendrils coiled around his leg and swept him off his feet. He hit the ground face first, staff clattering across the stone. Hawke let out a yell and leapt at the other mage, a woman with chin length black hair and ice blue eyes that were wide and wild. Anders scrambled to his feet, grabbing up his staff. In an instant he'd cast a quickening spell on Hawke and dispelled the woman's barrier.

She was yelling now in Tevene, something he couldn't understand. Hawke shot three consecutive fireballs, only one of which caught her in the chest, propelling her into a wall. She flicked her wrist, a dagger coming to her hand easily and with an upwards slice, opened the vein in her arm. As the blood dripped onto the ground, sizzling as it spattered against the stone, three shades appeared behind Anders. He turned at once, throwing up a shielding spell as the first shade threw itself forward, its black claws just inches from his face. He let loose a bolt of spirit energy, bolstered by Justice. It crackled and hissed and the shade melted.

"Started the party without me!"

Isabela was already dispatching a second shade, slicing one in a large arc before spin-kicking it back, staggering it. Anders released another two spirit bolts in quick succession and the second shade joined the first as a mere streak on the floor. There was a burst of cold amidst the scorching heat; Hawke's ice spikes caught the third shade, impaling it. The woman stood a few feet away, realizing she was outnumbered. She raised her dagger again, and from nowhere Isabela appeared behind her and struck. The mage stumbled forward and dropped unconscious to the ground.

Hawke winced and stumbled, then collapsed, clutching his leg. Anders rushed over to him, kneeling to look at the damage. The pant leg was melted away, skin angry and blistering red.

"Maker that stings," he hissed.

Anders shook his head, healing him. "Did you hit yourself with your own fireball?" he asked, teasing so as not to betray his fear.

"No. Bitch boiled the blood and then it burst open. Felt like a thousand ants crawling inside my skin." Hawke grit his teeth as Anders finished. "Thanks."

Anders helped him to his feet and looked over; Isabela had the mage tied up like a prized hog. "You always carry rope on you?" he asked.

"I'm a sailor. And it's useful," she said, tossing the woman's dagger and staff into the lava stream behind her.

Hawke had already moved to Fenris, tilting the rack back and starting to untie his wrists. Isabela hurried to help.

"He's got a heartbeat," Hawke said. "Anders…"

Anders nodded. As much as he disliked the elf, he couldn’t let him die. It was inherent in his nature to keep those alive who had a fighting chance. Unless that person was a Templar, of course. The cuts were deep, following the lyrium lines in his skin. Anders shook back the sleeves of his coat, two balls of blue light appearing at his palms as he began to heal him. Hawke nodded once, then stalked back over to the woman, pulling her to lie on her side. There was a sharp _slap_ and a moan and the woman was conscious.

"Who are you?" Hawke snarled.

The woman said something in Tevene. Isabela left Anders' peripheral vision. He heard her converse with the mage in Antivan, a language they both seemed to know. He ignored it and concentrated on Fenris. The cuts on his arms and chest were older, blood congealed and dark, while the ones on his legs seemed fresher. How many hours had they tortured him? The wounds closed, leaving behind no scars. Strangely, Anders found, the lyrium also seemed to be intact, though lighter in some areas, as if it had faded.

He pressed a hand to Fenris' chest and let loose a small jolt of electricity.

Fenris spasmed, eyes fluttering open. Bright green and glassy, unfocused. He groaned, trying to lift a hand.

"Don't," Anders said. "Your body's been through too much." He removed his coat and covered him up, looking down at him.

"Who…" Fenris started. His voice was raw, strained, and he winced. 

Talking pained him, and Anders realized he must've been screaming the entire time.

"Hang on." He pressed a hand to Fenris's throat and let a warm blue light press into the skin.

Fenris cleared his throat. "Where am I?" he managed.

"From the looks of it, I'd say it was pretty close to your very own personal hell." He looked over to Hawke and Isabela, who seemed as if they were done questioning the woman. "Hawke," he said. "Fenris."

"Watch her," Hawke said to Isabela, before returning to them. "Fenris," he said, trying to smile as he looked down at him.

"Who… Hawke? What happened?"

Anders tried to quell the slight sliver of jealousy he felt as Hawke smoothed back Fenris's hair. It was friendly gesture, but intimate, and Hawke left his hand there.

"You were kidnapped and we saved you. And Anders healed your wounds," he added, looking up at Anders with a grateful smile.

Anders returned it weakly.

"I…" Fenris said, head turning toward Anders, as if seeing him for the first time, then back to Hawke, blinking. "I remember…" He sat up suddenly, gasping, "Hadriana!" and recoiled in pain, curling up and falling back to his side in the fetal position.

Anders pressed his hands to bare back. He didn't have much mana left, feeling his powers draining slowly as he pushed a bit more healing light to try to ease the pain. "I told you not to move," he admonished.

Fenris let out a small, shivery cry. "Hadriana," he said again.

"She's here," Hawke said, touching his shoulder. He pulled Anders' coat, which had slipped a bit, up over him.

"Let… let me see," Fenris said, drawing in a sharp breath.

Hawke and Isabela dragged the woman before him. She started speaking quickly in Tevene and Fenris cut her off with a sharp word. They had a quick, terse conversation. Fenris scowled, asked a question. Hadriana answered him. Silence for a moment, and then Fenris nodded. Without warning, his lyrium markings flared to life. He thrust his arm forward, crying out in pain, and he sank his fist into her chest. Hadriana's eyes widened, body jerking, convulsing as Fenris twisted his wrist, then pulled back. She fell to the ground, dead, though her chest appeared unmarred. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the lava bubbling and Fenris breathing heavily. 

"Let's get out of here," Isabela said.

Hawke helped Fenris to his feet and into Anders' coat, buckling it closed to preserve his modesty. It hung past his knees, the sleeves reaching past his arms. He seemed almost a child swimming in his father's clothes. Hawke kept an arm around his waist.

"I can manage," Fenris said, pushing away from Hawke.

Anders reached out instinctively to catch him when he fell forward. "How about you stop being so bloody stubborn and let him help?"

Fenris looked up, glaring, and Anders held his stare, then let him go. Fenris crumpled to the ground.

"Anders!" Isabela said, reaching to help him.

Anders let her and Hawke pull Fenris to his feet, and Fenris didn't protest any further. It was a slow trek back Kirkwall.

"Maybe we should take him to the Hanged Man," Isabela suggested. "Unless you want people to stare."

"I don't give a shit if people stare," Hawke said.

"No, but Fenris might."

Hawke looked down at Fenris, who kept his eyes downcast. "Hanged Man or home?" he asked.

"I… I do not know."

"Home it is," Hawke said.

They took the less traveled path, avoiding the main alleys and the market square. It took a bit longer, but they arrived at Hawke's estate with drawing only a few eyes as they passed the Blooming Rose. Hawke bent and lifted Fenris easily into his arms once they were inside.

"He can walk," Anders protested. He didn't like the way Fenris buried his face into Hawke's chest.

"Bodahn, I'll need a hot bath in the larger guest room and some soup. And tea," Hawke added.

"Very good, messere," Bodahn said, looking on in concern. "Uh, there's an elven woman here, messere?"

Anders turned to see the girl standing meekly in a corner. He looked to Hawke, who glanced from her, then to him.

"Please," he said. "While I help Fenris."

Anders nodded, tight-lipped, and only felt slightly better at Hawke's grateful look. He watched them go, Bodahn following after. Isabela crossed her arms, leaning in the doorway.

"Jealous, much?" she asked, eyebrow raised. "I wouldn't worry. He never shuts up about you."

Anders shifted, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck before looking up at her. "Yeah?"

She smiled and winked, pushing away from the wall. "I'm going to catch Varric up on the gossip. Come by the Hanged Man later."

"I will. Isabela," he said, stepping forward.

She turned around. "Hm?"

"…Sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't know." It would seem silly to apologize to her for being jealous that she'd been with Hawke years ago. "Just… thank you."

She seemed to understand. "Hey, at least I had a turn before he went falling in love with you," she laughed, walking backward toward the door. "Hanged Man, dinner and cards!"

He lifted a hand in farewell and she left, shutting the door behind her. With a sigh, he turned to the girl. 

She curtsied perfectly. "Your home was hard to find, but many people know of your friend. Is he my new master now?"

The question made him sick. "No, no he's not."

"Oh," she said, and the sadness in her voice broke his heart. "I… I'm not sure…"

"Your mistress is dead," Anders said gently. "Do you have any family?"

She shook her head. "Papa was all I had, and the magister… took him. She liked his soup. I can cook it!" she said, looking up hopefully. "And I can clean. I'll be a good slave if you let me."

Anders shook his head. "No, but… if you've nowhere else to go, you can stay here." He was sure Hawke would agree. "And if you'd like to cook and clean… you'll be paid. Just like Bodahn."

"Like a… like a servant?" she asked. "I don't know. I've only ever been a slave, like my papa and grandpapa. What do I do?"

Oh Maker, he was too tired and too drained to have this conversation, and Justice was now filling his head with angry thoughts on slavery. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before looking at her again. He sighed and dropped his hand. "For now, listen to Bodahn. You'll settle in soon enough. We'll make sure you're taken care of."

"Oh, thank you, Master!" she said, curtsying.

He could almost feel Justice gnashing his teeth. "Anders. You can call me Anders."

"But… but that would be inappropriate," she said hesitantly.

"Serah if you prefer," he replied. "Not Master, anything but that."

"I am Orana," she said, with a slight smile.

Bodahn returned and Anders explained the situation, grateful when the dwarf eagerly jumped to task, immediately going over to introduce himself. Anders watched him lead her and Sandal down the passage to the kitchens and felt relieved of that burden. With a sigh, he started toward the guest hall, stopping just outside a slightly opened doorway.

"-couldn't be more grateful," Fenris was saying.

"We're friends."

There was a sloshing of water, but Anders didn't dare look in.

"Are you going to need help contacting her?" Hawke asked gently.

"No," Fenris snapped. "It could be a trap. Danarius could've sent Hadriana here to tell me about this 'sister.' Even if it was true, trying to find her would be suicide." He sighed. "She could also have come here on her own, trying to bring me back to get into his good graces. Then I suppose she figured she would have achieved the same results by just bringing back my markings. If you hadn't come…"

"As if I would've left you there."

There was a silence, another slosh of water, and Anders allowed himself a brief glance, turning his head just slightly so he could see in. Fenris was in the tub, Hawke sitting on a chair next to him. Fenris was touching Hawke's hand, eyes downcast. Anders could only see the back of Hawke's head though, not his expression.

"The soup will be ready soon," Hawke said. "I'll send Bodahn in with it, and you'll stay here-"

Fenris looked up to protest.

"You'll stay here," Hawke said again. "And I'll talk to Varric and Isabela about getting better security on that mansion. After all, Danarius is still alive."

Fenris nodded, then tilted his head a little, catching Anders' eye. Anders ducked out of sight.

"What?" Hawke asked.

"We are not alone."

_Shit._

Hawke let out a soft noise that could have been a laugh. "I'll come by in a few hours to check on you."

Anders felt it would be foolish to leave now. Hawke knew he was there, so he waited. A few seconds later Hawke walked through the door, holding Anders' coat. He looked around, spotted him, and smiled a bit, shaking his head. Anders shifted, folding his arms, feeling only slightly guilty. Hawke handed him the coat, which Anders took quickly.

"Everything go all right with the girl?" Hawke asked.

"Orana," Anders provided. "She has no other family. I figured since you like taking in strays, you'd be fine with her staying on as a servant." He frowned even as the words left his lips.

Hawke leaned in, palm against the wall next to Anders' head. He crooked a finger of his free hand under Anders' chin and lifted his eyes. "Yes. I do like taking in strays," he said, smirking. "Having been one myself, I understand a little kindness can go a long way." He leaned in further and kissed him.

Anders returned it somewhat reluctantly, then more enthusiastically when it was clear this was no simple placative kiss. He nearly dropped his coat when Hawke stepped forward, pinning him against the wall, and surrendered to his mouth. When Hawke pulled away, they were both breathless. Hawke pressed a finger to his lips, smiling, inclining his head toward the slightly opened guest room door.

Anders didn't give a fig about what Fenris might have heard, but as Hawke took his hand, pulling him away, he realized that maybe it was time to let go of his jealousy.


	7. Chapter 7

Anders had hoped that Fenris wouldn't take Hawke up on the offer to stay in the estate, but in the end it was neither his decision nor Fenris's. Hawke demanded he stay there while sending a request to Isabela and more tentatively to Varric to look at Danarius's mansion and improve upon the security. Anders had then hoped Fenris would stay in the guest room, brooding or grumbling or whatever it was he did in his spare time, and cursed his luck when he met Fenris the very next morning in the hall on his way out.

"I…" Fenris started carefully. "Wanted to thank you."

Anders crossed his arms, eyebrow raised. This, he had to hear. "Thank me?"

"For healing my wounds."

He waited. Fenris shifted uncomfortably, coughing awkwardly into a fist, eyes downcast.

"That's it?"

"What else would you have me say?"

Anders pursed his lips. "No derisive mocking? No telling me I'm an abomination? Nothing to say on the evils of magic?"

"Magic-" and Fenris cut off. "No. Just that. Excuse me."

Anders stepped aside and just as Fenris reached the end of the hall he said, "Hawke made you do that, didn't he?"

The fact that Fenris paused before turning the corner confirmed his suspicions. Still, he thought, it was something. And if Fenris was going to be a regular guest in the estate, Anders would try to keep the peace. For Hawke's sake if nothing else. He found him sifting through letters and approached quietly, wrapping his arms around his waist, kissing his cheek.

"Mm," Hawke said, turning in his arms to kiss him properly.

"More requests?" Anders asked, gesturing.

"The usual. Invitations to parties, things like that."

Anders slid his hand down Hawke's arm, over his fingertips, and brought the letter Hawke held up slightly so he could read it. "'To the esteemed Messere Hawke,' At least they got your name right. 'You are hereby cordially invited to Chateau Haine to attend Lord Prosper de Montfort's quarter-annual wyvern hunt.' Maker, quarter-annual? There must be a glut of wyverns in the forests around Chateau Haine."

Hawke folded the letter and dropped it with the others. "Maybe next time. I swear I spend half my days writing declinations and every day I get another dozen."

"The most wanted man in all of Kirkwall," Anders said fondly. "And you're mine."

Hawke grunted. "I would declare it openly if it wouldn't put you in the limelight."

"It's too dangerous. For the both of us," Anders added, agreeing. Still it did make him feel better knowing that if Hawke had the choice, he would tell the world the truth. "Come with me," he said, making up his mind.

"Where are we going?" Hawke asked, kissing him again.

Anders pushed him back though with no real conviction. Selby would have his head if he became distracted again. "The Hanged Man. I need to talk to Varric – you don't have to talk to him if you're still in a tiff," he added, seeing Hawke's expression.

"I'll come for a drink."

"It's not even noon!" Anders scolded.

"Then they're sure to still have their best ales," Hawke said with a grin.

Anders sighed as they started out. "Most wanted man in all of Kirkwall, raging alcoholic."

"Not yet," Hawke protested. "If that were true, I'd be drunk already."

They made their way down into Lowtown, Hawke greeting a few people as they called out to him. The Hanged Man's main room was empty aside from a man who sat face down in a corner and the bartender, Corff, who was polishing glasses. Hawke raised a hand to him and he nodded. Anders climbed the steps and knocked on Varric's door.

Varric opened it, was about to greet Anders, took note of Hawke, and merely grunted. "Hey Blondie. Hawke."

"Varric," Hawke said tersely.

"Got your message about the elf if that's what you're here for. I'll have someone look into it."

"Actually," Anders said before Hawke could reply, "I wanted to ask you a favor."

Varric's mood seemed to improve and he stepped aside to let them in. He settled himself at the head of his table. "Coffee?"

"Please," Anders said, sitting, tugging Hawke to sit with him. "How is your brother?"

Varric huffed as he poured out two mugs of coffee and passed them over. "He's in a Chantry sanitarium. At least he'll be taken care of there. Now, what can I do for you?"

"You know everyone who comes through here, right?" Anders asked, taking a sip.

"Well," Varric started modestly, then shrugged. "Yes. Yes I do."

"What can you tell me about the Templars?"

Varric raised an eyebrow. "Now, I'm not saying that it's unwise to know your enemy, but if you're thinking of starting fights with Templars…"

"Nothing like that," Anders assured him. "I just need information."

"That I have an abundance of."

Anders felt Hawke's hand slip onto his knee, squeezing gently. He covered it with his own, lacing his fingers through Hawke's. "I need to know if any of them would be gullible enough to believe a couple of rumors about their own."

Varric leaned back, fingers laced over his chest as he thought. "I might know just who you need. There's one that comes by in the evenings. Official business, he calls it. Hunting for runaways. Like they'd ever stop by for a drink here if they were trying to get away from the Circle, hah. He has a drink then starts on the lyrium. Usually leaves around midnight completely addled-minded. Who knows where he goes after."

Anders frowned. "Lyrium? Who's to say he'd even remember what he was told?"

Varric shrugged. "I can keep looking into it, but he's the best shot you're going to get on short notice. Should be here tonight if you want to come by. Roderick's his name."

Anders weighed his options. Varric's advice was usually sound when it came to things like this. He could come back tonight and seek Roderick out and hope he was confused enough to believe him but not enough to forget what Anders had said. Or he could wait. The thought of disappointing Selby again weighed heavily on his mind.

"Thanks, Varric. I'll come back tonight."

Varric nodded. "How's Fenris doing, by the way?"

Anders made a face and turned to Hawke, who seemed reluctant to speak to Varric. Anders sighed. "Are you two ever going to get around to apologizing to one another? I really would rather not play intermediary. I'm not a letterbox."

"…He's fine," Hawke said reluctantly. "About as fine as you can get having gone through that."

"Good."

"Oh Andraste's flaming pyre will you two just apologize and stop being so stubborn!" Anders stood, taking a last sip of his coffee, irritated. "I have to meet someone."

"I'll come with you," Hawke said, standing as well.

Anders crossed his arms, looking at him, and smirked a bit when Hawke hesitated. Hawke peered around him and looked at Varric. Varric sighed.

"We're good, Hawke," he said, with a dismissive gesture.

"But you won't admit I was right," Hawke said.

"Don't push your luck, Hero," Varric returned, shifting a pile of papers toward him. "Go on."

Anders figured this was going to be as good as it got, and said goodbye to Varric before pulling Hawke out.

"Do you want to let me know why we're spreading rumors among the Templar Order?" Hawke asked, following Anders to the docks.

"I told you the other day," Anders replied. "Or tried to," he added, remembering how that conversation eventually ended. "You don't need to come with me. I'm sure you have better things to do."

"Answering a pile of mail?" Hawke asked. "Attending a mid-morning tea with the Rhinehardts?"

"Keeping Fenris company," Anders suggested.

"Oho," Hawke said, almost gleeful. "You'd rather I'd spend time with Fenris? Your contact must be a secretive one."

"She's simply protective of the operation," Anders offered. "But I suppose you're in it now, after Alrik…"

"You could tell me more. You know I'd help you."

_But how far would you be willing to go?_ Anders wondered. He didn't voice the question, however, and waved slightly to Selby as they approached.

She frowned, the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth tightening as she crossed her arms, looking them over, then turning to Anders for an explanation.

Anders hesitated, looking over his shoulder briefly; quite a few people were milling about. "My friend would like to inquire about your 'special rates,'" he said, using their code.

"Ooh, are we using cloak-and-dagger phrases?" Hawke asked, and before Anders could tell him to shut up, he said, "How about 'the queasy crow flies at midnight'?"

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

Selby scowled. "How about 'The smart-mouthed Fereldan gets slapped across the face'?"

"Tempting," Hawke said. "I always did like it rough."

"Okay!" Anders interjected. "That's enough of that. Can we talk?" he asked, not bothering anymore. It was probably unlikely there would be a spy amidst the dockworkers.

Selby motioned them to an unused dock. They wound carefully around sailors and a very loud foreman before stopping at the edge of the pier. The gulls crying overhead and the crashing of the waves would make it difficult for them to be overheard. Selby looked at him and waited.

"I have it on authority that a Templar named Roderick is our best chance. He visits the Hanged Man in the evenings. We were planning to return tonight."

"We?" she asked, and looked at Hawke.

"If I can be of service, I will," Hawke said. "Unless you'd rather not have the help from the smart-mouthed Fereldan."

Selby looked at Anders and he shifted guiltily. "You did say he was a good man to have on our side. And he can be discreet."

"In that case," she said, tapping a finger against her lips thoughtfully. "I'd hate to put our friend in the Gallows in any more difficult positions at the moment." She shifted her gaze to Hawke. "You can play his role in this. Familiar with shipping manifests?"

"Well I have a friend who's a sailor."

"No more friends," she said. "If you're in this, you're in this but the operation needs its secrecy. So?"

Hawke nodded. "Familiar enough."

"Good. There's a shipment comes in tonight just around ten o'clock. After you're done with your Ser Roderick go to the Gallows and fill in Vernhart's name on the manifest."

"Selby…" Anders started.

"You wanted to make up for what happened. You brought him into this," she said, then looked at Hawke. "Well?"

"Sounds easy enough," Hawke said in a breezy tone.

"Good. I'll know when it's done." She turned and strode back up the pier.

"Charming woman," Hawke said. "I can see why you like spending time with her."

"Hawke, the Gallows? She can find someone else. We shouldn't-"

"It's fine," Hawke assured him, clapping him on the arm. "You worry too much. Besides, it'll be late. And if anyone asks why I'm there I can just say I'm looking for my dear little brother."

"You can't go alone."

"I didn't get the impression you particularly liked going to the Gallows."

Anders sighed. "No, of course I don't. Any mage in their right mind," he said, looking pointedly at Hawke," wouldn't want to go."

"And yet."

"And yet I can't let you go by yourself. What if they try to arrest you? What if Carver finally lets slip that you're a mage? Not to mention the Templars might get wind of the fact that your staff isn't just for decoration."

"As much as I'm sure the Templars would like to get their hands on my staff," Hawke said, and Anders rolled his eyes at the euphemism. Hawke grinned.

"You're terrible."

"And you love me, so what does that say about you?"

Anders nudged him a bit and started back up the pier. "That I apparently have no taste."

Hawke laughed and followed.

-

Anders sat with his back to the wall, sipping watered down wine and barely paying attention to Varric's story. He and Hawke had reconciled fully over a couple of pints and were laughing at something Isabela had interjected. Merrill was concentrating on her hand, tapping a card anxiously on the table, wondering if she should play it or not, and Fenris sat on Hawke's other side, looking down at one of Varric's novels. 

Anders discovered accidentally that the elf was just learning how to read. He had walked in on him and Hawke that afternoon in the library, their heads together, Hawke helping him to sound out a particularly difficult word. The entire situation was awkward and Anders so dearly wished he could go back to hating him quietly. Instead, he found hate slowly giving way to pity, and his only consolation was that Fenris would detest that more than Anders' hatred for him. 

"Hey, elf," Varric said, rapping the table with his knuckles.

Fenris looked up, blinking, almost as if he he'd forgotten where he was. "Yes?"

"Let me know when you get to the steamy bits. You can read that part out loud."

"Ooh, we wouldn't want to scandalize him," Isabela laughed. She'd started at least an hour before the rest of them and was quite clearly drunk.

"I hear he likes it," Varric teased. "I hear you even scandalized him once or twice."

Anders looked over at Fenris, whose eyes dropped back down to the book, cheeks tinged slightly pink.

"Hah!" Merrill said, throwing down her cards. "I think that means I win that round, don't I?"

"Not just yet, kitten," Isabela said, revealing her own. "Four serpents. The game is mine." She pulled her winnings toward her.

Next to Anders, Hawke scowled good naturedly and flicked his cards into the pile, tossing Isabela a silver. "Cheat."

"Always. You just haven't caught me at it yet."

"Deal another. Fenris, play a hand," Hawke said, finishing his ale. He lifted it, catching Norah's eye and waved her over.

Norah dutifully poured him another and he held a silver out to her. She reached for it and he pulled it back, teasing.

"Don't get paid enough to deal with you," she said, but was smiling.

"You love dealing with me."

Anders realized Hawke was slightly more than just tipsy, and wondered if he was even focusing on their task.

Norah reached again for the coin and Hawke laughed, pulling it back again, then tapped his cheek. She leaned over the table, giving everyone a nice view of her cleavage and kissed him on the cheek before plucking the coin from his fingers. Anders scowled.

"Oh you've gone and made Blondie jealous," Varric noted.

"Stop it," Anders snapped.

"I remember when you used to be fun," Varric said, taking up his drink and pointing it toward him. "Lighten up. Your Templar should be here soon enough and then maybe you'll remember how to live instead of stewing in your own thoughts."

"Templar?" Isabela asked.

Anders gritted his teeth. "It's nothing."

Hawke sipped his ale and picked up the cards, shuffling and bridging them before starting to deal. He tossed cards in front of Fenris as well, and when he finished he dropped a free hand to Anders' knee, squeezing gently. Anders sighed. He couldn't begrudge his friends their happiness or their drinking. A part of him wished he could join, but he needed to be alert for his mark tonight. And when Hawke's hand slid upward, he took it firmly. Hawke looked at him, and Anders shook his head.

"See him yet?" Hawke asked quietly, leaning in so he could whisper into Anders' ear and still be heard amidst the clamor in the room.

"Not yet," Anders replied.

"Let me know when you do," Hawke continued, his lips ghosting over Anders' ear.

"You're drunk. And stop that," Anders said, lifting his shoulder against his ear. It tingled slightly where he could feel Hawke's almost-kiss. "I need to concentrate."

Hawke's hand moved from his leg to around his shoulders and he slid closer to him on the bench. Anders allowed himself a small smile and leaned forward a bit, elbows on the table. Hawke's hand went from his shoulder to the back of his neck, stroking idly at his scalp. Varric was watching, an inscrutable look on his face. 

Anders sipped his wine, and slightly unnerved, finally asked. "What?"

"So… how did it finally happen?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did you go down on one knee? Did Hawke jump you? Come on. Give the gory details."

Hawke laughed, removing his hand only to toss down a card before drawing another. He removed the tie from Anders' hair, ignoring Anders' protest. Anders scowled, shrugging him off and reached for the tie. Hawke pulled it back in the same way he'd done the silver coin with Norah.

"Nuh-uh," Hawke said. There's a price." He tapped his cheek.

Isabela cooed, and Merrill giggled. 

Anders frowned. "Hawke."

"If you want it back," Hawke said, slightly sing-songish.

Anders leaned in to place a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek, but Hawke turned his head at the last moment and kissed him full on the mouth. Isabela and Varric cheered while Merrill was still giggling. Anders grabbed the tie from Hawke's fingers and, still scowling, pulled his hair back.

"That's going in the book," Varric said.

"I'll thank you to keep our personal lives private," Anders said.

"It's not personal if you're making out in the middle of the Hanged Man," Varric noted.

"We were not!"

Hawke laughed, and it didn't help matters. "Anders…"

But Anders was standing. "I'm going to wait at the bar." He took up his glass and shifted from behind the table, leaving Hawke and the others.

_Never should have involved him._

Lovely, just what he needed. A lecture. It wasn't fair to blame Justice though, not when his own thoughts were closely mirroring the spirit's. Hawke seemed to be more interested in drinking that evening than in anything to do with the underground. Selby was right to judge. He'd just taken a seat at the bar when Hawke slid next to him, touching his hand. Anders pulled away.

"I'm sorry," Hawke said.

"This isn't a game," Anders said, not looking at him.

Hawke gestured Corff over. "Coffee. Here, done with this," he said, handing him the half-full mug of ale. Corff took the mug and handed him a steaming cup of coffee, which Hawke sipped before settling on the stool next to Anders. "I know it's not a game. But if Roderick doesn't show up, there isn't much we can do, right? We'll try again tomorrow. And I still remember my promise to Selby." He glanced at the clock behind the bar. It was difficult to see in the dim, but they still had a good half an hour before the shipment was to arrive.

"You didn't seem interested in keeping your mind on things," Anders said, unable to keep the bitter hurt from his tone.

Hawke ran a hand back through his hair, sighing. "I did apologize. I can do it again if you'd like. Not many people hear it from me. But I know when I've messed up. It won't be the last time, I'm sure." He took a gulp of coffee, wincing as it burned his tongue.

Anders sighed and lifted a hand, running his thumb along Hawke's lips, pretending to wipe away a droplet to cover the subtle healing spell he cast. "Forgiven. This time."

Hawke smiled. "Mother always said I would drive my future wife insane." Anders scoffed, and Hawke shrugged. "Well. Husband now, I suppose."

Anders was about to point out the ludicrousness of that statement when he spotted a man in full Templar plate step into the crowded room. Thoughts of a future with Hawke and the implications behind his words were pushed to the back of his mind as he watched the man stumble over. Clearly he'd already started his nightly ritual elsewhere.

"I think that's our man," Anders said, nodding.

Hawke frowned, following his gaze. "Looks out of his mind already."

Corff greeted him by name and confirmed Anders' suspicions. He saw the exchange, both men sliding something hidden beneath their palms across the bar. Roderick uncorked a vial and downed it quickly. Though Anders couldn't see it, he knew it must be lyrium. Corff handed him a mug and Roderick took it, moving to the end of the bar to sit and drink. 

Hawke finished his coffee then stood. "Let's go, then."

Anders followed him. Roderick looked up, eyes half-lidded, swaying a bit.

"Do I… do I know you?" Roderick asked.

"I need to report a Templar for disorderly conduct," Hawke said, keeping his voice down so only Roderick and Anders could hear him.

Roderick tried to focus on him. "What… what happened?"

Hawke looked at Anders, eyebrow raised, then back to Roderick. "It's about Ser Conrad Vernhart. I … saw him kill a man down by the docks and shove him into the bay."

"What? Why would he do that?"

Hawke leaned forward. "He stabbed a man in cold blood! Do you doubt me?"

Roderick's eyes widened. "What? No… this… this needs to be reported." He slid from his chair, handing Hawke his drink and stumbled out.

Only when the door shut did Hawke burst into laughter. "Did that actually just happen?"

Anders shook his head. "Maker, and I thought the withdrawals seemed terrible. Is that really what happens when they get addicted? It wasn't like that in the Ferelden Circle."

"Almost makes you feel bad for them," Hawke said, sniffing the ale before sipping it.

Anders snatched it from him. "No. It doesn't."

"Hey!"

Anders put the drink on the bar and took Hawke's hand, pulling him out. "We have another job to do."

Making sure Hawke was following him, Anders took a less-traveled path to the docks. He ignored the ferryman when he advised them that the Gallows shops were just about closing.

"My brother's a Templar," Hawke said.

"Sorry to hear that, mate," the ferryman said, but still took the coin that Hawke handed him.

The Gallows Courtyard was nearly empty except a few Tranquils packing up their wares, their Templar watchdogs standing vigil. In the center of it all, near the stairs was Knight-Captain Cullen. Anders quickly looked away from him, hoping to not be noticed, and followed Hawke across the square.

"Sol!" Hawke called, raising a hand in greeting to a mage Anders had never met.

Sol looked up, smiling at Hawke, and Anders rankled. The man was tall, slim, and older by at least ten years. And he was looking at Hawke very appreciatively. 

"Ah, my friend," he said, shaking Hawke's hand, clasping his forearm with his free one as he did so. "Brought me more reagents, perhaps? Or just a friendly visit? Or did you come to shop for once? I was just about to close up but you know I'm willing to stay open for you."

Was it Anders' imagination or did the man's eyes flick up and down Hawke's body when he said that? Anders put a hand on Hawke's shoulder.

"Actually, Sol," Hawke said, "I was wondering if you had any oils."

Anders' eyes widened when he realized what Hawke was asking for. He felt himself blushing, face burning, and he removed his hand. "Hawke," he said through gritted teeth.

"Oils?" Sol asked. "I have quite a few. What were you needing it for?"

"Hawke!"

"For sex," Hawke said without a trace of embarrassment.

Sol's eyebrows raised as his eyes widened. He looked from Hawke to Anders, who held his gaze resolutely, determined not to be intimidated by this man. Sol's lips curled into a smirk and he turned away to dig through his things. He handed Hawke a fist-sized green crystal jar with a cork. Hawke took it, pulled the cork free and inhaled before offering it to Anders, who begrudgingly sniffed. It was nearly odorless, with only a slight hint of vanilla.

"Is it edible?" Hawke asked, and Anders died of humiliation.

Sol chuckled. "I would not drink it directly but I daresay if you were to accidentally ingest it during certain… activities, there would be no adverse effects."

Hawke pushed the cork back in. "Excellent. I'll have another, then."

Sol dutifully retrieved another and wrapped them both. Hawke tucked them into a side pouch and paid him.

"If I come across any rare reagents I'll be sure to stop by again," Hawke said, and shook his hand.

Sol bowed slightly to the both of them and Anders gave a half-hearted wave as they walked away. He kept his head down, massaging his forehead, hoping the blush had gone from his cheeks.

"Mind telling me what _that_ was about?" he asked Hawke.

"What?" Hawke asked, the paragon of innocence. "I thought that after that debacle with the bit from the Rose that Sol might have something better. And since we're here anyway."

"He looked at you like you were a piece of meat on the market."

"Lots of people do," Hawke said gruffly. "It doesn't mean I'm going to take them up on the offer. I only want you."

Anders looked over at him. Hawke was staring at him intensely with that familiar hardened gaze. Anders shivered. "We have a job to do," he said quietly.

They walked to where several men were gathered, having a heated discussion about whose mother was the biggest whore. Hawke waved Anders on to the shipping crates behind them while he distracted them, joining in. Though they didn't seem to know who he was, they slapped him on the back all the same. Anders shifted through the shipping manifests before finding the one he was looking for. Hurriedly he scribbled in Vernhart's name and placed it in the pile. A voice behind him made him stop.

"Serah Hawke, it is a surprise to see you here. Again. So late in the Gallows."

Anders side stepped away, into the shadows where he was able to watch as Hawke engaged Knight-Captain Cullen in conversation. Hawke tried unsuccessfully to get him to join in the joking.

"I'm afraid I must decline the conversation-"

Hawke clapped him hard on the back which even through Templar armor, it seemed that Cullen felt the strength of it. Laughing, Hawke walked him back across the Gallows and Anders lost the thread of the conversation. He slipped out and down the steps back to the ferryman where they waited for Hawke. A minute later he came jogging up, looking as if he'd just had an amusing jaunt through a nobleman's soiree instead of engaging in subversive activities. Anders didn't speak until they were back on the docks, walking up to Lowtown.

"What did Cullen want?"

"To warn me about you."

Anders flinched. "He recognized me. Years ago when we came here about Carver."

"I know. We've spoken quite a bit, me and Cullen."

Anders gaped at him. "So you mean to tell me you're in good with the Knight-Captain."

"He's more honorable than most Templars and the City Guard combined," Hawke said easily. "You can't just throw coin at him and expect him to keep his mouth shut like the others. In fact, that's probably the fastest way to get yourself thrown in a cell. So I invited him for a drink at the Rose a few times-"

"What?" Anders asked, disbelieving.

"And we talked about Ferelden. Don't give me that look. He thinks I'm a farmboy turned noble. Any rumors about me and magic tend to get swept under the rug. The power of denial is extremely useful. Isabela taught me that."

"Well she is the queen of it," Anders muttered. "But he talked to you about me," he prompted.

"He wanted me to know that you were a dangerous apostate. Did you really escape the Circle eight times?"

"Thirteen," Anders said. "No, fourteen if you count the time I actually got away for good."

Hawke let out an impressed whistle. "You'll have to tell me the stories sometime. Anyway," he continued, as they approached the Hanged Man, "I helpfully informed him that you were a Grey Warden, here on super secretive Grey Warden business and I might be assisting in your mission, though I was sworn not to tell what that was under penalty of horrible, horrible death and dismemberment."

"And he believed it," Anders said flatly.

"He's honorable, Anders. Honorable men want to believe others will hold themselves to their duty as stringently as they do."

Anders stopped, and Hawke, who'd been about to open the door to the Hanged Man, had to backtrack a few steps.

"What?" Hawke asked.

It took Anders a moment to process it all. Hawke had been making connections in the city, both in Hightown and Lowtown. And also, it seemed, the Gallows. He'd taken the Knight-Captain out for drinks to speak of Ferelden and was now using his contacts, wit, and charm to convince said Knight-Captain of lies. For him. To keep him safe. And Hawke did it effortlessly, as if it meant no more to him than running to the market for a quick shopping trip. Impulsively, he took Hawke by the front of the robes and pressed him against the wall, kissing him hard.

Hawke let out a noise of surprise, but didn't protest, grabbing Anders' hips and pulling him flush against himself. Anders felt those hands slide down, gripping his ass, squeezing. His own hands moved up to cup Hawke's jaw, thumbs brushing against it, urging his mouth open. Hawke thrust forward a bit and Anders moaned when Hawke pressed a thigh between his legs. He felt Hawke's tongue slip into his mouth, sliding against his own and gasped. He was only vaguely aware they were in full public view where anyone could walk out and see them, or turn a corner to bear witness.

Hawke pulled back and Anders whimpered. There was a moment when he thought Hawke was going to pull away completely and he should have. They were in public, it was dangerous. Anyone could see them, could see Hawke. And then Hawke reversed their positions and Anders' back hit the wall and he didn't care. Hawke's mouth was on his again. One hand was up against the wall, the other snaking down into his robes, between his legs, cupping him through his pants.

"Hawke," he breathed. "Hawke…"

Hawke growled, biting his neck, bruising it, and Anders bit his lip. He thrust his hips quickly, needing to feel the heat of Hawke's hand on him. And somehow Hawke had gotten his laces open, reaching in. Anders rested his forehead on Hawke's shoulder, hips moving faster now as Hawke stroking him. Thigh between his legs again, he ground down unabashed against his leg, clinging to his biceps. He dropped one hand to cover Hawke's own, urging him to speed up.

"I… I can't," he gasped.

"You can," Hawke whispered in his ear, drawing the lobe in, suckling on it. "Fuck… Anders, I love you."

That did it for him. He came, groaning through gritted teeth, spilling over his hand and Hawke's. He leaned back, breathing hard, sweating, and stared for a moment at the stars above. And the Hawke's mouth was on his throat, placing hot insistent kisses. Anders looked down, brought Hawke's hand up and licked away the come, eyes watching him.

"Oh… fuck," Hawke whispered. "That's…"

Anders held his own hand to Hawke's lips, and Hawke cleaned it just as thoroughly. As he did, Anders shifted his robes to preserve his own dignity, then undid Hawke's laces. Hand wet with Hawke's saliva, he reached down and started to stroke him. Hawke dropped his head to Anders' shoulder, hands flat against the wall on either side of him, holding on. He thrust into Anders' hand, breathy grunts coming with each snap of his hips.

"I love you," Anders whispered, his left hand moving up, laying gently on the back of Hawke's head where he slowly stroked his hair. "I love you… so much."

The door to the Hanged Man opened but Hawke didn't seem to hear it, concentrating as he was at fucking the tight circle of Anders' hand. Anders looked over, eyes half-lidded, to see Isabela stumble out, Fenris with his arm wrapped around her waist and Merill on their other side. He pulled Hawke's coat closed a bit and hoped they didn't look this way. Hawke chose that moment to come and he cried out as he did causing the three of them to turn.

"Don't stand up yet," Anders whispered to him.

Hawke kissed him instead.

"Get a room!" Isabela cackled. "Party continues at Hawke's estate!" she said, raising a hand in the air. "Come on, kitten, I'll race you there."

Embarrassed though he was at being caught, Anders was grateful to Isabela that she at least had the presence of mind not to linger. He would have to owe her one. Hawke was already tugging a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away the mess from Anders' hand and robe.

"That's a stain," he said, though he didn't sound like he cared.

"Maybe it'll come out in the wash," Anders said, looking down. The fabric was dark; it was barely noticeable.

Hawke fixed the laces to his pants, brushing himself off. He finished cleaning them off best he could before tossing the soiled cloth on the ground. "Maybe Orana knows a secret Tevinter trick to getting come-stains out of silk, you mean?"

Anders snorted half in shock, half in amusement. "The poor girl's been through enough already," he said, allowing Hawke to pull him away from the tavern and through the market square which was thankfully empty this time of night.

"Then Sandal. Maybe he has an enchantment for it."

"You are dreadfully inappropriate," Anders laughed.

"I'm also somewhat drunk, still quite horny, and the estate is several dozen blocks away, so try not to tempt me anymore than you already do," Hawke said, giving him an appreciative look.

Anders didn't, though it was a very close thing.


	8. Chapter 8

Anders woke with a start, sweating and short of breath. The room was dark and the windows were open, allowing in a warm summer breeze. He'd been having a dream or a nightmare, only the fringes of which he could recall. A Templar, helmed and faceless, and a whip, and pain. He pushed the covers from his chest down to his waist. But they still felt stifling and he kicked them away. Beside him, Hawke grunted and rolled over, bare chested in the moonlight, one arm over his head, the other laying idly on his stomach. Anders shifted to his side, head resting on his own crooked arm, watching. He felt the last vestiges of the dream fade away and was glad to be rid of them. His life in Ferelden had ended; he was free of the Circle. His life was here and now, in Kirkwall, with Hawke.

Hawke snored quietly, fingertips scratching lightly at his stomach as he dreamed about something. They'd had three long weeks: traveling along the Wounded Coast to the Bone Pit, running random little errands and oh yes, fighting a dragon. It was a miracle of the Maker that they'd come out of that alive. Luckily it wasn't fully mature, but they hadn't been able to save more than a handful of miners. In the end, Hawke decided it was necessary to map out every part of the mine, dispatch every dangerous creature. Which meant a lot of camping in dark, cramped areas which Anders found to be less than desirable. Still, he couldn't leave Hawke to it alone. Not that they were alone. Isabela was happy to join them, more than pleased when she found quite a bit of old junk she'd been able to haul back to Kirkwall and earn a pretty copper on. And Fenris it seemed, was content to be a constant companion to Hawke, and stayed with them while they cleared the mines.

_"Did you ever think about killing yourself?"_

It was a question Anders had asked him as they were exploring a side cave. In retrospect, he wasn't even sure what possessed him to strike up a conversation, expecting an immediate rebuke. But Hawke's gentle prodding at Anders to be nicer to Fenris forced him into thinking about the prickly elf more than he'd care to admit. Anger and frustration gave way to pity into… understanding, perhaps? To his surprise, Fenris's response lacked the usual bite.

_"I could ask you the same thing."_

Anders was glad he didn't. He feared his own answer, knowing how many times he'd thought of death, especially locked in the Tower's basement cells. He lost count over that year. How easy it would be to slice his wrist, to submit to a demon's call?

_"I'm serious. To get out of slavery. To escape your master. Don't tell me you've never thought about it."_

Fenris had frowned, Anders watching him as they moved through the tunnel. The strung lanterns provided a dim light.

_"I did not. To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker."_

The statement took Anders aback. Despite being surrounded by Templars and being reminded of the Chantry's pull over them every day, Anders rarely thought about the Chant of Light itself. He wanted no part of a religion that sanctioned kidnappings and enslavement. Perhaps Fenris saw it differently. He'd asked if he truly believed.

_"I try to," Fenris said quietly. "Some things must be worse than slavery."_

_"Some things are worse than death," Anders replied at once._

The conversation ended there, and Anders believed they both walked away from it with something to think about. Hawke mentioned seeing Fenris in the Chantry, talking with that Starkhaven prince – Sebastian. Anders enjoyed letting Hawke talk to him about Fenris and their other friends, speaking of Aveline's awkward courtship to a guardsman – Donnic – and Merrill's fascination with a mirror. Maker, that had been a mess. The Arulin'Holm, the tool Keeper Marethari had given Hawke in exchange for slaying a monstrous spider-like creature, was hidden safely in the bottom of a locked chest in the estate's vault. Merrill had been livid, and Hawke left Varric to calm her down as she shouted at him in elven.

When he wasn't with Hawke he was in his clinic, traveling easily through the estate's wine cellar to his front door. He kept his cot and his desk, bringing along books to study on archaic and long-forgotten magic that he found hidden in a private library upon one of his explorations of Hawke's estate. The Amell line had magic in it, and he was surprised to find a birth record, an old book with a list of names and a family tree. He brought it to Hawke and they sat in bed, reading over the bits of biography and obituaries. Anders slipped an arm around his shoulders, holding him as they read about his grandfather, Lord Aristide. His was the last entry, written no doubt by his own hand, possibly aided by Gamlen.

Anders fetched quill and ink and sat quietly with Hawke while he penned in the last bit of family tree, adding Malcolm's name and a brief paragraph of their family. Under that, he scratched down Leandra's, Malcolm's and Bethany's obituaries, leaving out the sordid details. The pen hesitated, and Hawke had turned to him.

_"I could add your name to the tree."_

_"Only family goes in there."_

_"You are my family now."_

Hawke grunted in his sleep, muttering something incomprehensible and his head turned facing Anders. Anders reached out slowly, tracing a fingertip along his jaw, down his neck. Family. What did that mean? It had been so long since Anders had anyone he could truly consider family. There were the Wardens, but it was less brotherhood and more another group he'd been bound to. Not that he didn't have certain fond memories, but he wouldn't have considered them family. And now there was Hawke. A man for whom he'd pined for three years. Hawke was rough and stern and no-nonsense to the world. He could be charming or sarcastic when he needed to, and he let his guard down more easily with friends. But Anders had gotten to know him better, he thought, than anyone. Strong and sweet, but so gentle when he whispered in Anders' ear how much he loved him. It terrified Anders. To be so close, to want so much. It wasn't ever anything he could have and he'd made the mistake once of falling in love. Years later, he still had nightmares of Karl's death. Now there was Hawke. A man who was more than capable of taking care of himself, but still another mage who could fall to the Templars. Who could be imprisoned – if they could find a prison strong enough to hold Hawke. Or worse… 

Anders swallowed that fear.

"Mm?" Hawke opened his eyes. "Time 'sit?" he mumbled.

"Too early to wake up," Anders whispered.

Hawke slid over to Anders, wrapping himself around him, head on Anders' shoulder and held tight. Anders smiled, hand coming to rest on his back. He was warm and smelled faintly of vanilla, evidence of their earlier liberal uses of Sol's oils. The Formari was thankfully fastidious in his deliveries, using only plain brown wrapping and a simple card addressed to "Messere Hawke". The letter inside, wrapped around two more bottles, thanked Hawke for his frequent deliveries of certain herbs that Anders had no use for. Apparently Sol was quite the apothecary. Anders found he no longer minded the man. While a lot of Kirkwall's denizens still looked appreciatively at Hawke, it was Anders he took to his bed every night. And more importantly, it was Anders with whom he'd woken up next to each morning. 

"Why're you awake?" Hawke muttered against his chest.

Anders ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it, scratching at the scalp. Hawke pressed against his nails appreciatively.

"Dreams."

Hawke's hold on him tightened and he slipped a bare thigh between Anders's legs. He inched over slowly until he was lying on top of Anders, and kissed his collar bone before lifting up enough to kiss him gently on the lips.

"Mmph," Anders managed. "You're heavy."

"There are potions that can help," Hawke said.

"What? Weight-loss potions," Anders joked. "Maybe if you weren't made of solid muscle," he said, poking Hawke in the chest.

Hawke grumbled, a low gravelly sound that went straight to Anders' groin. "I mean for you. For your dreams."

Anders palmed Hawke's chest, idly stroking with his thumbs. "They're not bad."

"Liar."

"Well, they are," Anders admitted. "But they're easily forgotten."

"Not easily enough if you can't go back to sleep. You don't sleep enough as it is. Too many late hours at the clinic. Or you're up all hours writing."

It was a light, ongoing argument they tended to have consistently at least once a day. Hawke was concerned that Anders wasn't eating enough, wasn't sleeping enough, was working too hard. In exchange, Anders would constantly remind him he couldn't run errands for everyone in Kirkwall nor meet every obligation or request or save everyone from every injustice. It was a hard argument to make, considering that Anders did admire him for trying. But he'd seen the tiredness in Hawke's eyes, massaged the rough knots from his shoulders. He didn't feel much like arguing now.

"If it truly starts to affect my sleep, I'll take something," he agreed. "I might even write Sol."

Hawke seemed to accept that and rolled away. Anders missed the warmth almost at once and curled next to him, relaxing when Hawke's arm came around his shoulders.

"I have to see the viscount tomorrow," Hawke said with a yawn.

"How is he?" Anders asked, though he held no love for the man. Dumar was possibly the only person standing between Meredith and Kirkwall at this point, and that position was tenuous at best. Hell, it had always been tenuous. And with no other heir and no clear successor to the position, Anders did wonder where the ruling power would fall should Dumar decide he was no longer able to handle the office.

"I haven't spoken to him since Saemus's funeral. Even then he seemed… broken. Poor man."

Hawke who'd so recently lost his own mother, could empathize. Anders found less sympathy for Dumar and more for his son and the people of Kirkwall. Saemus seemed to be a compassionate sort. He might have done well for the Circle. But that was no longer an option.

"Who'll take over the viscount position if he steps down?"

"More likely he'll drink himself to death first," Hawke sighed. "I'm not sure. Politics are ugly necessities… I admit I miss the finer points."

Anders allowed himself a small chuckle. It was rare Hawke admitted a failing, and this was a fair assessment. "I assume the nobility will have a vote."

"Mm."

"And seeing as how you're nobility."

"I suppose."

"Do you think they'd nominate you for the position?"

Hawke looked scandalized. "Maker, I hope not! Can you imagine what a travesty I'd make of the office?"

"Well, beyond the paperwork," Anders said. "I would think you to be a fair and just ruler."

Hawke scoffed. "No, thank you. More like I would set fire to the first person who annoyed me."

Anders laughed, and Hawke joined in. "But it would be a historic three hour long reign."

"You give me too much credit. Thirty minutes, tops."

Anders smiled as Hawke pressed a kiss to his head, and pulled the covers up over them. He yawned, burying his face into Hawke's side.

"We'll see what happens when it comes," Hawke said. "And be ready when it does."

"How?"

"By throwing fireballs."

Anders laughed and settled down, closing his eyes, falling asleep not long after.

-

It seemed the viscount wanted to talk to Hawke about a potential successor, even tossing Hawke's name into the list much to Seneschal Bran's disapproval. Anders waited for him outside, and remained quiet as Hawke ranted about incompetence and weak-willed men all the way down the steps and across the courtyard. They crossed the square and into the estate where Hawke took a breath. He was about to start in again when another voice from the main room caught their attention.

"This is important! Do not interrupt with your selfish prattle!"

It was Aveline. Hawke frowned and exchanged a confused look with Anders, who was just as bewildered as he was. Why would Aveline be there?

"Get off your high horse. I have problems too."

And that from Isabela. Anders edged into the entry hall, listening as both women ignored Bodahn's pleas for calm. 

Aveline snorted. "'What drink should I order?' and 'Who's the father?'"

"Oh you little-"

Hawke had heard enough. Anders recognized his irritation as he strode in, shoulders back. "Will everyone just shut up!" he bellowed.

Anders winced and followed, hanging back in the doorway. Neither woman paid him any attention as they looked at Hawke. Aveline was stony faced and Isabela was frowning, arms crossed, hip cocked. 

Aveline recovered first. "Hawke, the Arishok is sheltering two fugitives who have "converted" to the Qun. He must be convinced to release them. He's already feared because of Petrice. If people start to think he can ignore the law… I need your help so this doesn't get out of hand."

Anders felt his own irritation come to light. He'd thought they were finished with the whole Qunari business. Why couldn't Aveline take her guard and go confront the Arishok herself? Why involve Hawke? The worst thing was that Anders knew Hawke would agree.

Isabela finally uncrossed her arms and strode forward in front of Aveline. "I'm going to die!"

Hawke stared at her.

"There. Got your attention? Real problem."

Hawke sighed, massaging his temples before stepping further into the room. Both women watched as he walked to the side table, lifted the glass stopper off the decanter of whiskey and poured out a small measure. He drank it down in one practiced swallow, wincing before shaking his head a little. Then he turned around to face them.

"One at a time. Isabela," he said, nodding at her.

Anders crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway, listening.

"Remember the relic? The one Castillon is going to kill me over? A man called Wall-Eyed Sam has it. If you help me get it, Castillon won't kill me. Please."

Anders had vaguely recalled this conversation. Isabela mentioned it once or twice when she was drunk, and had used most of her Deep Roads profits to search for it. He knew it was important to her, though just how important he couldn't have guessed.

"I am trying to keep the entire city from rioting against the Qunari!" Aveline said, glaring at her.

"Well… maybe it's connected," Isabela said, gesturing as she turned away from her.

"What?" Aveline demanded.

"I'm just saying maybe it'll help," Isabela said evasively. "I mean, it's important to someone, right?"

Aveline sighed. "Now you start being responsible? Shit."

Hawke was leaning back against the sideboard, gripping the edge, watching the exchange. He pushed away. "Aveline, why come to me with this? Isn't this a matter for your guards? And by that I mean a lot of them."

Anders smirked a little, proud of Hawke for that. Good, maybe they could spend the afternoon in peace and quiet instead of running errands for the Guard.

"Sending a full patrol would just increase tension. But you're right. I'm the captain. It's my responsibility."

"So instead of doing your job, you ask Hawke," Anders said, finally stepping in.

Aveline looked at him. "Anders, this is none of your concern. You should-"

"He can say what he likes," Hawke interjected, and Anders couldn't help it as his smirk broadened. 

Aveline's lips pursed into a very thin, very tight line. "I suspect the viscount was hoping I would bring this to you."

"I was just talking with the viscount," Hawke growled. "He should've brought it up himself."

"Perhaps," Aveline acceded. "But I'd like to help him out. He's not been at his best."

"Has he ever?" Anders sniped.

Aveline ignored him.

Hawke turned to Isabela, and Anders wondered if Hawke's previous assessment of himself was perhaps inaccurate. He'd taken a potentially volatile situation and calmed down both women. Now, using a very diplomatic method, he was getting information. Even though in the end Anders knew they'd wind up assisting both of them with their troubles, he had to give Hawke credit. He would make a decent leader, even if he was horrible at politics.

"Why has this come up so suddenly? You've been searching for the relic for years."

"Sam's been talking to black market dealers all over Lowtown. It didn't take me long to get wind of it. What frustrates me is that he's been holding onto it for so long. I would've paid him for it instead of wasting my coin searching."

"Too bad you couldn't find it on the bottom of a bottle," Aveline quipped.

Anders lowered his head to hide the smile. As irritated as he was, he had to find amusement in this, at least until he was dragged into it.

"Who are his buyers?" Hawke asked, holding up a hand to quiet Aveline.

"Tevinter mages," Isabela said begrudgingly. "I doubt they'll look kindly on us interrupting. Bring a sword. Or twelve."

Anders shook his head. "You're mad. Let the relic go. It's never a good idea to get involved with magisters."

"I can't just let it go!" Isabela snapped. "This is my life we're talking about!"

"Are you sure this is the same relic?" Hawke asked, cutting Anders' next protest off.

"It had better be," Anders said, not pleased with being silenced.

"I've had my ear to the ground for a while. There was a description of the book. It's the right one."

"Book?" Hawke asked, suspicion in his tone and on his face. "I thought you didn't know what the relic was."

Isabela scrambled, not meeting Hawke's eye, looking around. "Well, I… I know it's a book! But that's all I know. It's written in some foreign language I can't read." She threw her arms in the air. "Honestly what does it matter? It'll save me from Castillon, so I need it."

Hawke shook his head, sighing. He was quickly losing patience. He turned back to Aveline. "Who would run to the Qunari? Even if it meant escaping prison time, it's not exactly the best choice out of the both of the two."

"They're elves accused of murder. Maybe they feel they've nothing to lose by fleeing the alienage," Aveline said.

"And they would be right," Anders added. "Considering what the alienage is. Those elves might be better taken care of by the Qunari than by the city. Maker knows how they're treated by the Guard and Templars alike."

"Watch yourself, Anders," Aveline said. "You're still an ap-"

"Do you _really_ want to go there? Right now?" Hawke snapped.

Aveline turned red and wisely remained quiet.

"If their conversion is genuine," Hawke prompted.

Aveline faltered. "I… don't know. But how many more would try if I allow this? Justice must be respected."

Anders scoffed and turned away, muttering, "What you know about justice could fill a thimble."

Hawke looked at him briefly but said nothing before turning back to Aveline. "So you're expecting trouble."

"After what happened to the viscount's son? Yes. I'm hoping the Qunari aren't looking for a fight."

Hawke let out a mirthless laugh.

"I'm hoping," Aveline continued, "that they'll be reasonable. But we'll see."

Hawke turned away from both of them, running a hand back through his hair. He looked at Anders, who shrugged a bit, spreading his hands.

"I'm with you, love," he said easily, the words coming faster than he could stop them. Their relationship wasn't exactly a secret anymore, but he had no way to know whether or not Aveline had caught wind of it.

Hawke nodded and turned back. "We'll deal with the relic issue first, then the Qunari."

Isabela pumped her fist but quickly dropped it seeing Aveline's glare, and stared innocently at the ceiling.

"You trust her this much?" Aveline demanded.

Hawke narrowed his eyes. 

"Probably not," Isabela said lightly. "I wouldn't."

Aveline glared at her before turning back to Hawke. "They won't wait at the compound forever. I really do hope this helps, because if it doesn't…"

Anders swore he saw her eyes flick to him. He straightened a bit, stepping forward to stand next to Hawke, not liking the implication. Even if had only been imagined, it wouldn't be the first time Aveline had spoken of his apostate status along with a thinly veiled threat.

"You think I like having this thing on my mind?" Isabela asked, breaking into Anders' thoughts. She sighed and looked to Hawke. "The exchange is happening in a Lowtown foundry. If we go now, we can catch them by surprise."

"Don't these things usually happen under the cover of darkness?" Hawke asked, and Anders could tell he was joking to cover his frustration.

Anders touched his wrist and Hawke looked at him. "We should bring the others. Who knows how much backup these magisters might have."

Hawke nodded. "We'll pick up Varric along the way if he's at the Hanged Man. Can you-" He stopped, frowning.

Anders raised an eyebrow, waiting. Then realized. He sighed. "I'll alert Fenris and meet you at the Hanged Man."

Hawke kissed him. It was brief, chaste, but it spoke volumes.

_Be careful. I love you. Stay safe._

Anders squeezed his hand and then left, not bothering to give either woman a backwards glance as he went. He ignored the nobles milling about, the guard who told him to stop sprinting as he traveled the few blocks, up the stairs to another section of Hightown and opened the door to the derelict mansion. Stepping carefully over a spring-loaded trap that Varric's men had placed, he took the stairs three at a time and knocked once on the door to the master suite where Fenris spent most of his time.

"Hawke?" Fenris said, looking up from the table.

He was clutching a quill in his hand, ink pot sitting next to a pile of papers. Anders almost smirked at Fenris's look of disappointment.

"Mage," he said in a terse tone.

"Hawke needs you," Anders said, pleased when Fenris stood at once, picking up his gauntlets. "We're heading to Lowtown to see about a book that could save Isabela's life. Then to help Aveline with the Qunari."

"You can fill me in on the way," Fenris said, strapping his sword to his back.

Anders did as they traveled together, informing him on the screaming match between Isabela and Aveline and the details that were pertinent. They arrived in front of the Hanged Man where Isabela was waiting with Hawke and Varric.

"Ugh, it's about time," Isabela said impatiently, and led the way through the streets toward the foundry district.

They weren't too far in when they were confronted by a group of Qunari. Anders felt the nervous anticipation of a fight ripple through their group. Varric pulled Bianca from his shoulder and Fenris held his sword loosely at his side. Hawke reached back for his staff, other hand out in a placative gesture to the Qunari, but the leader was looking directly at Isabela.

"Hold, basra. You will surrender the relic."

Anders had a sudden, nasty realization. Whatever this relic – book – was, Isabela had taken it from the Qunari and they wanted it back.

"I don't have your stupid relic," she spat back unhelpfully.

A spear hurtled through their ranks and Anders dove to avoid it. The smell of sulfur hit the air as Hawke came up hurling a fireball directly at the Qunari leader. Two rushed in with swords, but Isabela was too fast, disappearing in a puff of smoke before stabbing one directly in the spine. Fenris met the other one blade for blade, erupting into white light as his tattoos enveloped him. Anders felt the pull of the Fade and got to his feet quickly. Varric shouted something and Hawke returned it easily – Maker, were they bantering in the middle of a fight?

Fenris thrust his hand into the Qunari's broad chest and with a cry ripped out its heart, dropping him to the ground. Anders stood back, knowing he couldn't go toe to toe with these things. Another Qunari was hit in rapid succession by four arrows from Bianca. He growled and yanked them out, blood flowing out of the wounds in tiny rivulets, and lunged at Hawke, who was nearest. Hawke was faster, leaping backwards out of the way, suffering only a slash to the front of his robes as the Qunari's clawed hand ripped the fabric. Anders heard movement behind him and instinctually ducked, feeling the _whoosh_ above him as a sword sliced through air where his head had been previously.

"Watch yourself, Blondie!" Varric called, releasing an arrow that caught Anders' would-be attacker in the face.

The Qunari roared in pain, stumbled, and Anders rolled to his back, bringing up his staff and cast a bolt of spirit energy. It caught the Qunari in the chest where it crackled, and the creature fell to its knees. Anders let loose another and it slumped to its side where it lay still. The clanging of metal brought his attention back to the others. Hawke was backed up against a wall, staff raised against a Qunari swordsman who was doing his best to cleave Hawke in two. A sharp force-wave of air emanated from Hawke's staff, but the Qunari held strong. Almost too late, Anders realized what was about to happen.

"NO!"

The scream was ripped from his own throat and he cast a shielding spell as the Qunari brought the blade down. The spell might have been enough with a normal assailant, but the sheer force of the Qunari's swing caught Hawke on the shoulder, knocking him down where he lay unconscious. A pool of blood formed quickly underneath him. Anders panicked, raising his staff, intent on attacking the thing head on. A vicious war cry from the Qunari's right and he looked up as Fenris leapt from the side, bringing his own two-handed blade down at an angle. It sliced through the Qunari's shoulder and stuck at his collar bone. Fenris yanked the blade free causing the Qunari to stumble. A _thwunk_ and an arrow caught the Qunari in the chest. From behind, Isabela appeared, sinking her dagger into his back.

The triple onslaught was almost too much. The Qunari raised his blade as if to strike Fenris. Fenris pulled back and with a shout, plunged his sword into the creature's middle. It staggered back, gripping the blade. Fenris gave a quick turn of the sword, a horrible squelching sound, then planted his bare foot against the Qunari's stomach before shoving him back. It dropped to the ground, eyes wide, black, and glassy where it lay dead.

Anders crossed the square in a blink, leaping over the fallen body to kneel next to Hawke who was still unconscious, but breathing. "Oh thank the Maker," Anders breathed, and peeled back the torn fabric of Hawke's coat.

His shoulder was cut deep, though not quite to the bone. The shielding spell, had it not been applied in the heat of battle, would have likely left him with only a bruise after that hit. But there had been little time to prepare.

"Is he dead?"

Isabela's voice.

"Shut up."

Fenris's biting retort.

Anders concentrated, healing energy springing to his palms as he slowly brought them down over Hawke's shoulder. He felt the blood beneath his knees, warm and wet and tried to ignore it. Hot tears stung at the corners of his eyes and he blinked furiously. Hawke was alive, he would be okay. He'd seen him badly injured before and was able to heal him just fine. These thoughts he had to keep close to himself, lest he break his concentration and lose the thread of the spell. He'd been healing the wounded since as long as he could remember, his talents being discovered at an early age. How many had he seen like this? How many had he saved? Not to mention the destruction and carnage he saw during his time in Amaranthine, in the Deep Roads. He'd saved the lives of so many Wardens who were closer to death than Hawke was right now.

But it was Hawke.

Green eyes fluttered open and Hawke groaned. Anders let out the breath he'd been holding, a flood of relief with it. He blinked and tears rolled down his cheeks. He lifted a hand and wiped them away, smearing Hawke's blood against them.

"There you are," he whispered.

Hawke looked up at him, groggy. "Where'd I go?" He squinted and reached up to wipe the blood from Anders' cheeks. "You hurt?"

Anders laughed, a nervous response. Leave it to Hawke to worry about him when he'd just been cleaved nearly in two by a Qunari. He took his hand. "I'm fine, love."

Hawke sat up slowly, shaking his head a bit. "Let's add that to the list of things we should never do again, okay?"

"Seconded," Varric agreed, glancing at the carnage around them.

Anders stood, helping Hawke to his feet before looking at the others. "Anyone need healing?"

Fenris begrudgingly offered his arm where a spear had caught him. A clean slice across his bicep. Anders brought up a hand to heal, ignoring Fenris's flinch as pressed a ball of light to his skin. He breathed a bit more magic into it partly to annoy the elf, and partly relieve him of the fatigue he must be feeling after a fight like that. Fenris grunted, which Anders took as a thank you before turning to Isabela.

"So if the Arishok asks us why we killed his men, what? Do we just say it was an accident?"

Varric snorted. Hawke, rolling his shoulder, leaned down and picked up his staff, making a face at the pool of his own blood. He led them down the street; having this conversation amidst a pile of Qunari corpses wasn't the smartest thing to do. Isabela had the decency to look sheepish as Hawke demanded an explanation.

"Er… yes. About that. The relic belongs to the Qunari. And there's a small chance they want it back," she added.

"Oh. Do you think so?" Hawke growled.

"I've always known what the relic is," she continued.

Anders wanted to set her on fire. "You knew," he said flatly. "You knew, for years you knew?"

"You're the reason the Qunari can't leave," Hawke said, stopping. He crossed his arms, looking at Isabela for an explanation. "The Arishok said he was bound by the Qun to stay here until he found what was lost. He meant this relic, didn't he?"

"I didn't want to worry you," she said, shifting a bit. And then, maybe figuring she owed them an explanation, said, "The relic is a Qunari text handwritten by that philosopher of theirs – Keslan, Cousland… whatever his name is."

"Koslun?" Fenris asked, frowning.

"That's the one!"

"The founder of their religion," Fenris said, something like disbelief in his tone. "The most revered being in their history? That text would be sacred beyond measure."

Isabela quelled a bit under their scrutiny. Hawke was glaring and Anders was fairly sure he was restraining himself from setting her on fire as well.

"I stole it; they followed me here to reclaim it. That's why they're still in Kirkwall."

"How did you still something that valuable from the Qunari in the first place?" Fenris asked.

Anders wondered why they were still talking. It clearly wasn't his affair, and it wasn't Hawke's responsibility to get it back. But if they could retrieve the book and return it, then the Arishok and his men could leave and Kirkwall could return to its normal, everyday, irritating neediness that it demanded of Hawke. And he, Anders, could refocus his energies on the things that were necessary.

"I didn't. The Orlesians had it," she explained. "They planned to return it to the Qunari."

"What does it say when Orlesians have more sense than you do?" Hawke growled, taking a step forward, arms uncrossing. "You could have prevented this entire mess by staying out of it. What possessed you to take it?"

"I told you about the ship I boarded. Castillon was sending slaves to Tevinter."

Beside Anders, Fenris rankled. Anders hadn't heard about this, however. Perhaps something that happened long before he'd met Hawke, or when they weren't as close.

"If I got the relic for him, he would let me off the hook for the slaves I freed."

"You couldn't just pay him?" Hawke asked.

"You think I have that kind of coin?" Isabela snapped. "Slaves are worth a lot of money. Anyway, it seemed easy enough when I agreed to it. I didn't realize it would all come down to this."

"And if you did," Anders said, "would you have changed anything? Or would have still taken the book? How could you be so selfish?"

"Hey this is my life we're talking about! What would you have done?"

"Whatever it took to keep Qunari from hurting innocent people."

"But they didn't hurt anyone," Isabela insisted.

"Not unless you count all the ones that were hurt by Petrice's actions," Hawke said, and Isabela stared at the ground, kicking idly. "Which could have been prevented if they'd never come here in the first place."

She crossed her arms over her stomach and shrugged before looking up. "It's the only thing that'll get Castillon off my back. Please tell me you'll help me get it."

Anders stepped forward to say something, but Hawke held up a hand. "We'll deal with Castillon when the time comes. The book goes back to the Qunari."

"A wise decision," Fenris intoned.

Varric shook his head a little, perhaps disagreeing with the choice, but saying nothing. 

Isabela's eyes narrowed, face hardening. "How could you? I thought we were friends. You said you'd help!"

"Not at the cost of the lives of innocents."

Isabela threw her arms in the air, groaning in anger. "You! I swear, Hawke, you are the most stubborn, foolhardy-"

"Better than being a selfish bitch," Anders snapped, unable to help himself.

"That's enough," Hawke said in a tone of finality. He cast his steely glare at Isabela. "We're getting the book. Are you coming or not?"

She huffed, blowing air through a stray lock of hair that had escaped her bandanna. "Fine. Yes. I'll come help you save the city," she said, an edge of exasperation and sarcasm to her voice.

Hawke shouldered his staff and moved on, the rest following him as they ascended the steps to the foundry in question. He opened the door and moved inside. The lanterns were lit, and there was movement in the next room. Quietly they crept, and Anders could just barely see through the crack in the door several figures standing inside. He recognized the Tevinter-style robes, and there were at least six of them, all facing a man who shuffled nervously.

"I… have it," he said haltingly.

A figure crashed through the foundry's skylight, landing on a high balcony. Anders recognized the hulking outline of a Qunari.

"The Tome of Koslun will not fall into Tevinter hands!" he proclaimed.

But the man was running. He paused briefly after he flung open the door, seeing the five of them standing there, then took off.

"He's getting away!" Isabela shouted and ran after him.

"Isabela!" Hawke yelled, but she was gone. He turned back to the room where several more Qunari had appeared and were starting to attack the Tevinter mages. Fire and lightning lit the room beyond as the mages fought back.

Anders grabbed his arm, pulling him away from it. Fenris and Varric had the same idea, backing away quickly.

"This is not our fight, Hawke," Fenris said.

Hawke gave one last backward glance at the room before allowing himself to be pulled away. Outside, the blond man was lying supine in the street. Anders cursed under his breath and approached, dropping to his knees.

"He's alive," he said, and quickly cast a spell to bring him to consciousness and remove the pain.

"Oh… my head," he muttered.

Hawke got a knee, looking him over, hand on his shoulder. "Are you Sam?"

"What's it to you?" Sam groaned.

"We could just slit your throat and dump you in an alley," Hawke said, clearly out of patience. "Where did Isabela go?"

"Are you Hawke?"

Hawke frowned. "Yes."

"She said, 'Tell Hawke for what it's worth, I'm sorry.' She took that blighted book and knocked me out."

"Do you know where she went?" Hawke pressed.

"Halfway to Tevinter by now's my guess. I don't know, mate, I was un-con-scious," he said, snapping the last word.

Hawke sighed and got to his feet, Anders rising as well. "This is a fine mess," he said quietly.

"Look on the bright side," Anders offered. 

Hawke looked at him expectantly.

Anders frowned. "No, you're right. This is pretty bad."

Hawke ran a hand back through his hair before turning to the others. "Come on. We still have to find Aveline and deal with the Arishok."

Anders followed, hoping desperately this wouldn't end horribly.


	9. Chapter 9

They stopped briefly at the Hanged Man for a cursory wash up, cleaning the blood from their hands and faces, and the worst of it from their clothing. That finished, they trekked down to the docks to the Qunari compound, Varric muttering something about temperamental horn heads. Aveline paced in front of four of her guardsmen, arms crossed. She looked up as they approached, sighing in relief.

"It's about time," she said, and was about to turn up the stairs to the lone Qunari who guarded the gates.

Hawke grabbed her arm. "Wait. There's something else."

"What?" she asked, annoyed.

Hawke dragged her away from the gates and Anders listened, trying to quell the queasy feeling in his stomach as he gazed up at the compound. All of Lowtown had large, strategically placed black iron gates from the Imperium's time. They were built to stop any slave uprisings from getting too out of hand. But this was the only area where the gates were regularly enforced and guarded and meant to keep people out rather than in. He recalled the less than pleasant time he was inside the compound and had no wish for a repeat.

"The relic belongs to the Qunari," Hawke explained. "We almost had it, but…"

"But what?" Aveline growled.

"Isabela took it and ran off."

If looks could kill, Anders was fairly sure Hawke would be a pile of ash, the way Aveline's eyes flashed. However, Hawke was returning her gaze just as steadfastly.

"How irresponsible-" Aveline started, and broke off in frustration. "Great, just lovely. Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. We have to deal with this first. Maybe the Arishok will be reasonable. If _you_ tell him," she said, glaring.

"You can't put this blame on Hawke!" Anders snapped.

Hawke touched his shoulder. "It's fine. I'll explain it. Though I wouldn't hold my breath at him being reasonable about this."

Aveline shook her head, still glaring, and approached the Qunari guard. "I request an audience with the Arishok."

The Qunari looked them over. "He will allow it," he said to Aveline. "But not in this number."

"I'll only bring my friend here and a small complement of my guard. Is that few enough?"

Anders reached forward, gripping Hawke's sleeve. "Hawke-"

"It's fine," Hawke said, and looked down at Varric. "Be ready for anything, yeah?"

Varric nodded.

"Garrett," Anders tried again.

The use of his given name made Hawke look up in surprise. Anders frowned, sure that his concern was apparent on his face.

"I'll be careful," Hawke promised, cupping Anders gently below the ear, smiling softly before turning back to Aveline and the Qunari.

"That is acceptable," the Qunari said.

He opened the gate and Aveline, Hawke, and three guards walked inside. The gate swung shut behind them and Anders felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_It should be us inside there instead of her guards._

"We should not linger here," Fenris said, taking note of the Qunari guard who was eyeing them.

"We're not leaving him," Anders said.

"Yeah but just maybe we should wait a bit further down the street," Varric suggested.

Anders sighed but followed them, moving down the alley to lean against the tan stone wall. He crossed his arms and looked toward the docks, watching as sailors loaded and unloaded their cargo. There was a prickling at the back of his neck, and he was full of unease. Fenris paced slowly, eyes on the ground, and Varric had a palm against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other as he examined his other gloved hand. Perhaps ten long, tense minutes passed, Anders unable to think of anything but Hawke when an explosion far above them rocked the city.

"What in Andraste's holy flames was that?" Varric swore, looking up.

Heart pounding, Anders followed his gaze. Smoke and rubble falling from Hightown. Around them, people started screaming, running to get away as out of nowhere, Qunari flooded the streets. Anders could do nothing but watch, stunned as one of them brought their sword up, slicing a man from groin to neck, his entrails spilling to the stone before he collapsed.

"Holy shit!"

That from Varric, who was already turning, grabbing Anders' arm.

"Move! Blondie, move now!"

They ran from the carnage, Anders' blood pounding in his ears nearly drowning out the screams. Another explosion rocked the area, closer this time, and he was thrown from his feet. Disoriented, ears ringing, he sat up slowly. Fenris was already climbing to his feet, yanking Varric up.

"Watch out!" Anders screamed as a Qunari stepped in front, sword raised.

Fenris's tattoos flared to light and he burst into luminescence as the sword passed straight through him. Anders was too terrified to be impressed. He scrambled to his feet as Fenris withdrew his sword and blocked the next blow that would've taken Varric's head. Anders raised his staff, applying a quick shielding spell and alighting a glyph that would repulse any that came near it. Two shots from Bianca and quick sword work from Fenris felled the Qunari, but more were pouring into the streets.

"We have to find Hawke!" Anders shouted.

"There!" from Fenris.

Hawke was running with Aveline, their heads low. He leapt out of the way as a large piece of rubble broke free from one of the stone buildings. The dust cleared and he was coughing, trying to avoid people running in the opposite direction. Anders ran after him, nearly colliding as he gripped Hawke's arms.

"You're all right," Anders gasped, desperate.

Hawke nodded, still coughing, and Varric handed him a silver flask which Hawke drank from gratefully, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. They backed into an empty alley, safe for now from the chaos.

"Do you hear it?" Aveline asked, looked up. Smoke was starting to fill the air. "The Qunari are spreading out, attacking the city."

"What happened in there?" Varric asked, taking his flask back from Hawke. He took a swig before offering it to Anders.

Anders drank, wincing at the horrible bitter taste, and passed it to Fenris, who drank as well. Varric capped it and tucked it back into his coat. There was no way out of it now. They'd have to fight their way through if they wanted to get anywhere, and sitting like scared rabbits simply wasn't an option.

"The Arishok didn't want to give up his converts," Hawke said.

"With no help from you!" Aveline shot back.

Hawke stepped forward, and even though Aveline was dressed in the full plate of the guard, he stood chest to chest. "Their sister was raped by one of _your_ guards. If it were me, I'd have done more than just murdered the bastard."

Aveline leveled her gaze at him, and it was impressive how she held his look. Even in plate boots she wasn't quite as tall as him. "Be that as it may, it is not for you to decide. It's a matter for the City Guard. If every criminal starts running to the Qun-"

"Well you don't have to worry about that now!" Hawke said, shoving her back, turning away.

She hit the wall with a slight _umf_ and her hand went to her sword. Both Anders and Fenris stepped in front of her and she turned her glare upon them. Anders looked to Hawke, who was walking down the alley with no real destination. Around them, fires roared, a woman screamed and a deep booming voice yelled something in Qunlat.

"Hawke, what do we do?" Anders asked, hoping to bring him to focus.

Hawke turned, looking defeated. "Somehow I don't think even the Arishok cares what happens at this point. They're going to tear the whole damn city apart!"

"We need to rally the guard. We'll meet at the Keep," Aveline said. "Perhaps it's best if you head back to your estate-"

"Andraste's ass I will!" Hawke snarled.

"This isn't your fight-" she tried again.

"You made it my fight!" he shouted, shoving a finger into her plated chest. "When you asked for my help! When you and your viscount did nothing about Petrice, about the fanatics who pushed and pushed the Arishok into this! Isabela made it my fight when she involved me with that stupid relic! It's _your_ mess in _your_ city and _I'm_ going to fix it and there's not a flaming thing you can do about it!"

There was silence for a moment save for the chaotic mess of the city at either end of the alley. 

Aveline swallowed hard and nodded. "Fine, Hawke. Have it your way."

"Go rally your guard. I'll get to the Keep when I can," he said.

He waited for her to go before turning to Varric. "The Templars are likely going to be joining once word's sent to the Gallows. Can I… can I ask you to check on my uncle?" he asked hesitantly. "And Merrill. Make sure she's safe."

Varric nodded. "Don't die on me, Hawke."

"Haven't yet," he said, grinning.

Varric nodded to them and took off down the alley.

"So we are to fight our way up to Hightown and save the day yet again," Fenris said, his lip curling in what Anders swore was amusement.

"Just watch my back," Hawke said, giving him a light punch on the shoulder. He looked at Anders. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be, I suppose," he agreed.

They kept low, thankfully avoiding any opposition as they carefully made the trek from the docks back up to Lowtown. Around them, looters were pillaging shops, picking out merchandise from upturned chests. One man looked up as they approached, quickly hefting his find and running in the opposite direction.

"Rioting brings out the worst in opportunists," Fenris noted. "Or best."

"I can't say I blame them," Anders said. "It looks like most are fleeing to Darktown. Let's hope the Arishok hasn't dispatched his people there."

He spared a thought for his clinic, locked up tight, and felt an almost overwhelming urge to go back. What if people sought refuge there, believing his door to be open? What if Lirene or Selby needed his help? He looked back down the street, above the city line to see the Gallows in the distance. The Circle mages at the very least would be safe. Probably for the first time since being imprisoned, ironically. And all it took was a Qunari attack on the city.

They turned the corner to sounds of fighting. Qunari towered above a group of men dressed in silver and blue armor and Anders felt an itch at the back of his brain. Grey Wardens. In Kirkwall. His first thought was to simply turn and run, avoid all contact with the group that might drag him back to Vigil's Keep or worse, to the Deep Roads. But Hawke was already moving forward to intercept and Fenris was right behind him. Anders hung back, applying a quickening spell to the elf's movements and reapplied his shielding charm to all of them.

One of the Wardens fell and Hawke deflected what would've been a killing blow from a Qunari spear with his staff held tightly in both hands. Anders raised his own and sent a spell at the Qunari's head, catching just the tip of his horns. But it was enough. Ice spread from the horns down to the Qunari's chest. His arms dropped and Hawke didn't hesitate, pressing the tip of his staff to the creature's head and blasting it to pieces. The Qunari's lower half dropped, then toppled sideways. 

Hawke turned to the fallen Warden, whose arm was sliced open and dripping blood. "You all right?" he asked, helping him up.

Fenris, lyrium markings fading, was helping another Warden to his feet. Anders approached cautiously.

"You have our sincere thanks."

That voice. That accent. The Warden turned around.

_Shit._

He'd known this man, had argued with him on more than several occasions. And now Stroud was here in Kirkwall. Anders wasn't vain enough to believe the Warden-Commander would have sent an entire troop of men to retrieve him. He wasn't important enough. Anders lingered where he was, but it was too late. 

Hawke turned to him. "Anders, can you see to this?"

Stroud's head snapped up and Anders approached, half-apprehensive but mostly cocky. "How do you do, Stroud?" he asked jauntily. "Fancy seeing you here in Kirkwall."

"Anders," Stroud said, though it was more of a growl with his Orlesian accent.

Hawke looked from one to the other, a flicker of something – jealousy? – across his face in an instant. "Touching reunion time?"

"Hardly," Anders said, and begrudgingly healed Stroud's arm. The slice was deep and had hit a vein. And it didn't appear the Wardens had brought a single mage with them.

"We had wondered where you went," Stroud said, dropping his arm, not bothering to thank him.

"What are Grey Wardens doing in Kirkwall anyway?" Hawke asked. "Come to help with the fight?"

"Grey Warden business, I'm afraid I cannot say."

"Isn't that always the case?" Anders said, unable to help himself.

Stroud frowned at him. 

Another Warden, who'd relieved a Qunari of his spear and was carrying it with him, clapped Stroud on the back. "We need to move, Stroud. We've lingered too much as it is."

Stroud nodded. "I'll catch up." He turned back to Hawke. "I cannot believe the Qunari would dare such an attack. This will lead to war with the Free Marches for certain. I fear pressing matters take us elsewhere, but we can spread word to the other free cities. Perhaps they will bring aid."

"There's something more important than an invasion?" Hawke called after him as Stroud started to walk away.

Stroud turned on his heel, walking backward. He dug into his pocket and flicked something small and shiny to Hawke. "Here, take this. It will be of more use to you than to us."

Hawke caught it one-handed, frowning. "Stroud!"

Stroud raised a hand in farewell. "Maker watch over you, friend," he said before turning and hurrying to catch up with the rest.

Hawke looked down and opened his hand. In his palm lay a small silver ring.

"Suppose that means you're engaged now," Anders said, clapping him on the back. "Tough break. Stroud's a bit of a tit."

Hawke scowled. "It's enchanted." He slipped it on; it barely fit his little finger. "I doubt they'll get to wherever it is they're going in time to send reinforcements for the fight. Let's go."

Anders followed, Fenris trailing behind. Hawke led them through the market square and the main steps into Hightown. The damage wasn't overly extensive, but Anders noted several craters in the ground and a few sizable holes in the buildings. The streets were almost deserted. The nobles must've locked themselves in their mansions or otherwise made it to cover the moment the attack started. From across the square they heard a woman shriek in terror. Two Qunari, helmed and armed were dragging her by her ankle as she scrabbled at the stone, trying to get away.

"Parshaara!" one of them spat. "Quit your struggling, woman!"

"Hey, ugly!" Hawke called, readying his staff. The tip glowed with a bright orange light. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

"Teth a!" the Qunari called to his companions further up the street. "Bas!"

Anders joined Hawke, applying a spirit bolt to the fireball that streaked across the courtyard. It hit the Qunari in the chest and he dropped his hold on the woman's leg. She screamed, scrambling to her feet and ran away. In an instant, they were surrounded by Qunari; at least a dozen circled around them, deadly looking spears and long swords in their hand. There was one brief pause before the fight began, a Qunari yelling a war cry as he threw himself forward.

Fenris intercepted and Anders cast a repulsion glyph. The next two that tried a frontal assault were shoved back several feet. Behind Anders now, Hawke raised his hands to the sky, opening the heavens and fire rained down around them. Fenris dodged them easily and Anders aided his movement with a haste spell. Anders threw his hand up, casting a spell to block a throwing dagger, slowing the projectile until it lost all speed and merely clattered to the stone.

They fought on for some time, Hawke and Anders backing up toward a wall while Fenris cleared a path, trying to break the Qunari flank. Anders felt himself straining, reaching for the last bit of mana, hoping that he wouldn't need to save anyone from the brink of death. Beside him, Hawke was starting to slow in his casting, using his reserves to aid Fenris, who was also showing signs of fatigue. A Qunari had him locked down, sword against sword, pressing hard. Fenris dropped to a knee. Hawke threw himself forward with a cry, Anders pushing himself to follow, to provide whatever protection he could.

It happened very quickly; the slowly darkening sky seemed to light up all at once and the world went silent. Anders was swept off his feet, hitting the stone hard, the wind knocked from his chest. Dazed, he wondered if it was another explosion. Gasping, he struggled to sit up, vision blurry and head spinning. He saw Fenris a few feet away in a similar state, lyrium markings dull, a gash on his forehead dripping blood into his eyes. Beyond him, he could see Hawke stirring. And above Hawke stood a Qunari, chained and collared. A Saarebaas, a mage. And he was lifting his palms, a blue light forming between them. Anders tried again for air.

"HAWKE!" he screamed, reaching for his staff to provide protection, anything. But his mana pool was empty. He reached for the Fade, to try to tap into any power he could. Maker be damned, he would push himself to save Hawke from the blow.

Then suddenly the light was gone, fizzled out. And Anders felt the familiar tingling and then abrupt disconnect from the Fade he associated with a cleansing wave from Templars. He didn't have time to panic though as a sword suddenly sliced through the Saarebaas's chest. The Qunari opened its mouth as far as its stitches allowed, an expression of shock. The sword was yanked up through its sternum, cutting through the collar, and then it disappeared through the hole it had made. The Qunari dropped to its knees. The Templar removed its head in one vicious stroke.

Anders saw the owner of the sword and finally panicked. It wasn't just a Templar. He'd seen this woman before, knew what she looked like, who she was. Her name was on the lips of every apostate, every Circle mage he'd helped to free. Her blond hair and striking blue eyes did not betray any signs of kindness. She was a hard, tempered woman, as steely as her dragonbone armor.

She reached down and pulled Hawke easily to his feet. "I am Knight-Commander Meredith," she said. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed Hawke. "I know you. The name "Hawke" has turned up in my reports many times. Too many," she added.

Fenris had gotten to his feet, wiping the blood ineffectively from his face, smearing it. He limped to Hawke, and Anders begrudgingly followed. If they were to be arrested, then it would be together. He dared not do any magic – and his own mana was still quite depleted – and instead reached into his coat pulling out a bandage and some elfroot.

"Here," he said quietly to Fenris, handing him the latter. "Chew it; it'll take the pain away. Tilt your head back."

Fenris did so, and Anders carefully wiped away the blood before wrapping the wound. It would have to do for now. Meredith looked them over, scowling. The clanking of armor made Anders wince, his muscles tightening in an instinctive fight-or-flight response. More Templars. From what he could tell, the Knight-Captain and-

"Carver," Hawke said evenly.

Carver was with the group that approached, his plate mail wet with blood, eye bruised and swelling. Meredith looked to Cullen first with a nod, then to Carver before turning back to Hawke.

"Your brother never mentions you, though that's understandable. There had been whispers of your… status."

Anders had a feeling she didn't mean his nobility or his rise from being a mere Fereldan refugee.

"Don't put this on Carver," Hawke said, in an uncharacteristic display of compassion for his brother. "He did what he thought was best for family."

"Like you did for mother?" Carver shot back.

"We do not have time for petty squabbles," Meredith said, and though her voice hadn't raised, Carver immediately shut up and stood to attention.

_Well,_ Anders thought, _that's something._

"The Qunari are taking people to the Keep," Meredith said, turning toward the sounds of another scream. "They may already be in control. We will need to deal with them."

"They're taking hostages," Hawke said. "Why? The only ones we've encountered have shown they have no adversity to slaughtering innocents."

Fenris spoke up. "They're taking everyone of import and putting them in the same place. Those that agree to convert to the Qun, live. Those that don't…"

Anders looked at him. 

Fenris shook his head, frowning. "It happened in Serehon."

Meredith surveyed him with a critical eye. "Charming." But whether she meant it as a slight against the Qunari or Fenris's knowledge of them, it was difficult to tell.

"Then we'll need to get to the Keep and help any way we can. The Guard-Captain said she was going to rally her people there," Hawke said.

Meredith nodded. "I'll overlook your own use of magic. For the moment."

Anders bit his tongue. He thought that maybe goading the Knight-Commander in the middle of a very volatile situation wasn't the best idea. Saying, _"Gee, that would be lovely, thanks. Also could you not arrest us_ afterward _either?"_ might be the fastest way to get another cleanse thrown his way and irons clapped around his wrists. And wouldn't Carver have a field day with that?

"Head to the Keep, and I will see if I can find any more of my men. The creatures will pay for this outrage. Knight-Captain," she said, and turned on her heel, striding down the street, up a set of stairs and out of sight, her Templars following.

Carver gave one last look at Hawke, glaring before pulling his helmet on and hurrying after.

"He's going to be even more insufferable now," Hawke said. "And I only ever see him on holidays."

Anders couldn't believe it. Though his Grey Warden status gave him some protection when he was in Amaranthine, this was the first time since before his Joining and after leaving that he was simply allowed to walk away after coming face to face with Templars. He knew he should run. Go back to Darktown, open his clinic, tend to the wounded. But Hawke wouldn't give up now, not when the fate of Kirkwall was sitting square on his shoulders.

Hawke turned to look them over. "Fenris."

"I'm fine," he said.

Hawke dug into his pocket and came up with a lyrium potion, handing it to Anders, who took it tentatively.

"Is this all you have left? You should take it," Anders said, concerned.

"You need it more than I do right now."

They stared at one another for a moment, and Anders blinked first, scowling at him. He uncorked the vial and downed half of it, then shoved it back at Hawke.

"Anders-"

"I'll throw the bloody thing on the ground if you don't take it."

"Can we put the lover's quarreling on hold?" Fenris said, though with no real bite. His exhaustion was palpable.

Anders felt slightly rejuvenated by the potion, and was able to cast a minor spell to relieve some of the fatigue. Hawke sighed but drank the rest, tossing the empty vial across the square before turning toward the street that led to the Keep. There was a barking, a low growling, and Anders turned a split second before a large mabari ran past him.

"Filet!" Hawke exclaimed, catching the huge dog as Filet bounded up, paws on Hawke's shoulder, stub tail wagging. "How did you get out? Are Bodahn and the others okay?" Filet barked twice, which Anders took to mean yes. Hawke scratched him roughly between the ears. "Come on, boy. Let's go chew on some Qunari heads."

Filet seemed happy with this news and hopped down, trotting with them to the Keep. Night had fallen fully now, and through the darkness Anders saw two shadows, one throwing bright shocks of lightning, the other trying to parry with a sword. The sword-wielder was Qunari, large and hulking. He ran straight at the mage, shoulder down, knocking him to the ground. The mage let out a cry and fell. Filet took off at once. There was a strangled cry from the Qunari as the mabari barreled into him. The Qunari's cries were cut off suddenly as jaws as strong as steel crunched down on his windpipe.

Hawke jogged slowly up to the mage and offered a hand up. Anders frowned. He knew this man – elf – as well.

"Many thanks, my friend," he groaned, pressing a palm to his bleeding forehead. A burst of blue light and it was healed. He looked exhausted, swaying a bit. His grey hair was flecked with blood, robes torn and covered in dirt and ash.

"Are you all right?" Hawke asked, steadying him.

"I-" He looked around. "No… oh no."

Anders surveyed the square. At least half a dozen mages lay scattered, all dressed in Kirkwall Circle robes which were spattered in blood. The mage ran to one, dropping to his knees to turn the body over. He lowered his head.

"I told them to run. We were outnumbered. I… it was too much."

"First Enchanter Orsino," came Meredith's voice. She came around the corner, followed by her original troupe and at least a dozen others. "You survive."

Orsino looked up. "Your relief overwhelms me, Knight-Commander," he said dully, slowly getting to his feet. "My senior enchanters didn't make it."

Meredith surveyed the square, her face impassive. "There is no time for talk," she said in clipped tones. "We must strike back before it is too late."

Of course the Knight-Commander wouldn't mourn the deaths of a few mages, Anders thought. But he bet there would be a candlelight vigil every night after this for every single Templar that fell. Justice itched as his brain and he closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. To relent to Justice's will here and now, surrounded by Templars, would be death.

"And who will lead us into battle?" Orsino scoffed. "You?"

As much as Anders hated thinking it, he knew Meredith would likely be a better choice than Orsino. Meredith might be a Templar and a wretch of a woman but she was the strongest commander the city had, leading the most powerful army in Kirkwall. Not even Aveline's guards, as much as she whipped them into shape, could provide the kind of manpower the Templars could. And they needed a strong leader against the Qunari threat. Orsino may have magic but he was a simpering, weak elf. Anders checked his anger. For all the negative things he had to say about Irving, the Ferelden Circle's First Enchanter at least showed some backbone to Knight-Commander Greagoir.

"I will fight to defend this city, as I have always done!" Meredith snapped.

"To control it, you mean!" Orsino shot back. The death of his senior enchanters had apparently hit hard, and his voice broke a little as he continued. "I won't have our lives tossed to the flames to feed your vanity!"

"I'll lead us," Hawke said, stepping forward, and Anders wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss Hawke or kill him.

_One day,_ Anders thought, _he will learn to keep his mouth shut._

Or perhaps not.

Both Meredith and Orsino looked at Hawke in astonishment. Meredith opened her mouth to say something, but Hawke was already issuing orders.

"The Qunari are likely guarding the entrance of the Keep and we need to get in if we're going to do any damage. Let's go see what it looks like." He turned to Fenris and Anders. "You two with me."

Fenris nodded. Orsino stepped forward, palm raised with a blue light; Fenris flinched. Orsino frowned, but healed his head, removing the bandage. Fenris scowled and jogged after Hawke, who was already heading up the stairs to the Keep's courtyard.

"That means, 'Thank you,' in brooding elf," Anders supplied, smirking at the irritated look on Orsino's face before following the rest.

They gained the top of the steps and were waved over by a group of City Guard who were standing in the shadows. Aveline was there, sword in hand wet with blood. Her guards were in a similar state, two or three sitting down against the wall, helmets off and breathing hard.

"Knight-Commander," Aveline said, then noticed Hawke. Her eyes widened. "Hawke."

"What's the situation?" Hawke said at once.

Aveline frowned, and when she spoke again it was to address the Knight-Commander, not Hawke. "At least a dozen Qunari at the entrance. We saw them dragging in a few women but were unable to stop them."

Meredith nodded. "Can your men fight?"

"A frontal assault would be suicide," Orsino said. "Unless you plan to lose all your men and the Guard to Qunari."

"We need to attack them now before their numbers grow," Meredith replied.

"Are you mad?" Orsino snapped. "They have hostages in there! We need a distraction." He looked to Hawke. "You're supposed to be in charge."

Anders watched Hawke weigh his options, looking first to Aveline, who seemed surprised by Orsino's statement, then to Meredith and her men. Carver did not meet his eye.

"Going in directly is the best way to achieve a massacre. Orsino, distract them, draw them out. I'll slip in with my group," he said, gesturing to Fenris, Anders and Filet, "and assess the Keep. Meredith and Aveline, you and your men ambush the Qunari as they come down the courtyard, then join me inside. Drop the gates if you have to once they're dead to prevent any more from coming in."

Meredith frowned, folding her arms. "Very well, then."

Orsino nodded and took staff in hand. Made from Red Steel tempered to turn onyx in color, it was tipped with a large three-headed hydra, wicked looking and somewhat out of place in the hands of such a frail-looking elf. The eyes on the hydra's heads glowed red as he ran forward. The Qunari turned, one of them shouting, and Hawke quickly slipped into the courtyard. Fenris and Anders followed, the mabari staying low to the ground, and all four of them kept to the shadows. A wave of heat filled the area as Orsino leaned back, three enormous fireballs forming on the hydra heads. He whipped his staff forward and the fire exploded at the top of the second set of steps, knocking back three Qunari, killing them instantly.

"He has you beat there, Hawke," Fenris said.

"His staff is prettier," Hawke countered. "If I had that staff, I could do that."

Orsino backed away as the remaining Qunari raced down the steps. Orsino caught one with a telekinetic hand and threw him into a pillar before turning and running back to the gate. Hawke didn't waste another second, and Anders followed quickly, adrenaline fueling him. They wrenched open the door of the Keep and slipped inside, letting it fall shut behind them. The Keep was dark and empty except for the bodies strewn about. One had a Qunari spear shoved into its breast. Anders didn't recognize the man. It was quiet except for the sounds of distant shouting.

"The throne room," Hawke said. "They've gathered the nobles there."

A sudden clattering made them turn, weapons at the ready. Anders saw the silhouette of a man in the shadows, crawling. He'd reached up to grab the table and ended up knocking over a set of silver candlesticks. Beside Hawke, Filet crouched low, growling, hackles raised.

"Easy," Hawke said, approaching slowly.

The man looked up, and Anders recognized the seneschal. He had a large bruise on the right side of his face, eye swelled shut. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle and he was holding a bleeding wound on his stomach. Hawke dropped to his knees at once, gently turning him over.

"Bran," he said. "What happened?"

"What do you think?" Bran snapped, and Anders had to marvel at the man's ability to be a complete ass even wounded as he was. "The Qunari rushed in. Took the viscount. Left me for dead…"

Anders looked up, noticing the blood trail leading down the stairs to where Bran lay now. He must've crawled the entire two flights, and Maker only knew how he managed to survive. Hawke didn't even have to ask, Anders had already pressed his hands to the wound on Bran's stomach. Bran winced; Anders didn't have time or energy to be anything but brutally efficient, not wanting to waste any of his precious mana the lyrium potion provided him.

Hawke pulled him to a sitting position under the table. "You'll have to sit tight. Your leg will have to wait. Just keep to the shadows and don't make a noise. Meredith and Aveline will be in soon."

"Where are you going?" Bran asked, wincing at the pain in his leg, though he was no longer in mortal danger.

"To speak with the Arishok and politely ask him to bugger off," Hawke growled, standing.

Bran protested, but they ignored him as they climbed the stairs and walked down the lighted hall to the throne room. One of the large double doors was halfway open and Hawke pushed it the rest of the way before stepping in. Several dozen nobles stood, scared and shaking. A few heads turned in their direction. Qunari were standing around the edge of the room and the Arishok was in the center, on the dais where the throne was. He turned around.

"Here is your viscount," he proclaimed, and threw the head of Marlowe Dumar into the crowd.

Gasping and shrieking, the men and women quickly moved away. Dumar's crown flew off and his severed head hit the rich red carpet, bounced, then came to a rolling stop. Behind the Arishok, sitting slumped in the throne was Dumar's body, covered blood. The Arishok held his double-headed axe, bits of gore and viscera clinging to the blades.

"You dare!" a man shouted, stepping forward.

Anders wondered if he was foolish or simply had a death wish.

"You're starting a war!"

A Qunari stepped forward from his place against the wall. The man never had a chance to struggle. With a quick, nauseating crack, the Qunari snapped the man's neck. He fell limp the floor. Several women screamed and the crowd tightened a bit, backing away from the body.

"Look at you," the Arishok said, his disgust clear in his deep voice. "Like fat dathrasi you feed and feed and complain only when your meal is interrupted. You do not look up. You do not see that the grass is bare. All you leave in your wake is misery. You are blind. I will make you see."

Hawke stepped further into the room, the crowd parting for him, Anders, Fenris and Filet, who sniffed idly at Dumar's head before following.

"But we have guests," the Arishok continued. "Shanedan, Hawke. I expected you." He started down the stairs, shouldering his axe. "Maraas toh ebra-shok," he said, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. "You alone are basalit-an."

Hawke stepped forward, standing arms-length from the Arishok, staff in hand.

The Arishok gestured to Hawke, turning to address the crowd. "This is what respect looks like, bas! Some of you will never earn it!" He looked back down. "So tell me, Hawke. You know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How would you see this conflict resolved without it?"

The other door banged open. Anders turned, jaw dropping. Isabela marched in, a very large, very old-looking book cradled under one arm.

"I believe I can answer that," she said.

Anders was shocked at the audacity. She strolled in, looking as if she hadn't been the cause of this entire mess and came to stop next to Hawke, who was looking at her, arms crossed. Isabela shrugged a bit before turning and handing the book to the Arishok.

"I'm sure you'll find it's mostly undamaged."

The Arishok took it gently, or as gently as an eight-foot, hulking creature with claws could take something. "The Tome of Koslun," he breathed reverently.

"It took me awhile to get it back, what with all the fighting everywhere," Isabela said, turning back to Hawke. "You know how it is."

Anders noticed that Hawke did not crack a smile.

"What made you decide to come back?" he asked flatly.

Isabela winced. "Misguided sense of loyalty and friendship, I guess."

The Arishok gingerly handed the tome to one of his men, who took it, bowing, and retreated. "The relic is reclaimed," he said. "I am now free to return to Par Vollen – with the thief."

"What?" Isabela and Hawke said together, turning to stare at the Arishok.

"She stole the Tome of Koslun," he said, looking down at Isabela. "She must return with us."

"And what happens then? You kill her?" Hawke asked. "Is that justice in your mind?"

The Arishok shook his head slightly. "She will submit to the Qun and the Ben-Hassrath. More than that, I will not say."

Anders had no idea what Ben-Hassrath was, but he knew it couldn't be good. Part of him wanted Hawke to submit. To allow the Arishok to take Isabela and the book and leave the city. But if it had been his decision… he knew he would stand by her. As frustrating and as wrong as she might have been for stealing the tome and putting them in that situation, he knew he wouldn't have handed her over. And he knew Hawke wouldn't either.

"You have your relic," Hawke said vehemently. "She stays with us."

Isabela looked at Hawke, eyes wide, surprised and grateful.

"Then you leave me no choice," the Arishok said, dropping his axe from his shoulder. "I challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death, with her as the prize."

In any other situation, Anders might have made a crack about dueling for the damsel's hand. Fear kept him from speaking. Fear and anxiety, the thought of Hawke going toe to toe with the Arishok. He felt sick, his words stuck in his throat, he couldn't even lift a hand to touch Hawke's shoulder. To tell him to rethink this.

"No!" Isabela said. "If you're going to duel anyone, duel me."

Anders' relief was short-lived when the Arishok replied.

"You are not basalit-an. You are unworthy. What say you, Hawke? You know we do not suffer thieves. She cannot walk away from this insult. I will take her. If you object, duty demands that we fight."

Hawke's fingers flexed, then relaxed. "I accept."

"Hawke!" Isabela said, and Fenris was pulling her away, into the crowd.

"Meravas!" the Arishok shouted. "So shall it be!"

And at once, Qunari were pushing the nobles back, one dragging the body of the dead man out of the way as they cleared the throne room. Anders saw Aveline and her guard, Knight-Commander Meredith and her Templars and Orsino, but he didn't care. He stood in the middle of the room with Hawke, who was balancing his staff in the crook of his shoulder as he stripped off his coat.

"Hawke," Anders whispered. "Garrett, please don't do this."

Hawke handed his coat to Anders, who took it, gripping tightly. "It'll be fine." He knelt down and scratched Filet behind the ears. "Be a good boy and go with Anders."

Anders swallowed hard, looking down at him. Hawke glanced up, offered a smile and winked.

"And if it's not?" Anders asked.

Hawke straightened, biceps flexing as he spun his staff. Under his coat he'd worn a sleeveless dark green tunic, which reminded Anders so much of the blood red one he remembered Hawke wearing the very day he'd met him.

"Then make sure you write a damn good paragraph for me in the family tree book."

"It's not funny," Anders insisted.

Hawke gripped his arm, pushing him back gently to the crowd. "I love you," he whispered. "Go on."

Anders licked his lips, and he couldn't bring himself to reply. It felt too much like a good-bye. He watched Hawke move to the center of the room, coming to stand in front of the Arishok once more. Anders clutched Hawke's coat tightly to his chest.

And waited.


	10. Chapter 10

Hawke felt the nervous anticipation in the air crackle like the electricity at the end of his staff. The Arishok stood before him, cracking his neck, hefting his weapons. Though the room was packed with people, you could've heard a pin drop on the stone. Not even a whisper as everyone watched and waited. He let his gaze slide to Anders, who looked worried clutching the torn and bloodied coat, then turned back to the Arishok. There was the briefest of nods between them, and then suddenly the Qunari was racing forward with incredible speed. He never would have guessed how fast he could move, being that large. Hawke leapt nimbly out of the way. The throne room melted away and he was back in Lothering, sparring with his father.

_"Magic won't solve everything. You need to learn other skills as well."_

He'd argued the point. And Malcolm laid him flat with a magic-less punch to his chest that Hawke swore he could still feel today, years later. He agreed, rubbing the sore spot, and they found a clearing in the forest, privacy with enough space where they could fight both with fists and fire. Running headlong into battle was never Malcolm's way, though Hawke knew he learned his hardheadedness from his father. The man could be so stubborn. But he knew how to gauge his enemies and how to react accordingly.

The Arishok dual-wielded his axe and a long, double-bladed sword. The former clanged against a pillar, Hawke dodging just in time as sparks flew. The latter swiped at him and he jumped backward. He'd yet to throw a spell, feeling energized as he ducked and dodged. He was doing as his father taught him, watching the attack, learning the enemy. The Arishok wore the barest of armor, his hard red leather pauldrons and light leather greaves. It left his midline and neck completely vulnerable, like most of the Qunari did, and gave Hawke several prime points of vulnerability. Yet still he waited.

_"You need to learn better control."_

Malcolm's voice as he watched the house burn down. Hawke had been ashamed. It was a dream, a demon in the Fade temping him. He tried to fight back and ended up releasing a very large fireball, larger than he'd meant to. Only it wasn't just in Fade, it was in the house as well. The room he shared with Carver caught fire first and he had to drag his brother out. Bethany, perhaps sensing him through the Fade had woken quickly and they all got out of the burning farmhouse in one piece. He remembered standing there, shivering in his thin pajamas, watching it smolder.

After, it was just about rebuilding. That was his life. Packing up, moving, tearing down, rebuilding. Lothering was the longest they'd stayed in any place, and now it was dead and gone. Kirkwall was his home, but not really. Though he had an estate, an actual house with four sturdy walls, and he'd been there over four years, it simply didn't fit him. Kirkwall didn't fit him. But the friends he'd made? They were worth fighting for. Not the nobles that were gathered around, now shrieking in terror when the Arishok slashed at him, or cheering him on as he dodged another blow. He'd kept his secret of magic for too long, both in Ferelden and here.

Either Kirkwall would accept him. Or they wouldn't.

He whirled his staff at the Arishok and three consecutive fireballs flew from the edge. The crowd was a blur of noise in the background as he felt the hum of the Fade. His earlier exhaustion seemed to melt away. The Arishok turned into the blast, catching it on his pauldron, but he did stagger slightly. Though Hawke had never battled someone of this strength before, he'd always been fighting. Whether it was to spar with his father or tussle with Carver, he was a born combatant. The year he spent with the Red Iron kept him fit and honed his reflexes. He became quicker, more nimble in Meeran's employ. And the work he continued to find – or that continued to find him – ensured that his life of comfy nobility wouldn't allow him go soft. And his nights with Anders…

No, he wouldn't think about those here and now. Too distracting.

The Arishok roared in pain as Hawke's ice blast hit him in the leg. He followed it with a nasty poison spell he learned from Merrill, and the Arishok's thigh started to bubble and hiss. He cried something in Qunlat and leapt at Hawke, who used a force blast of air not to push the Arishok away, but to propel himself back. He misjudged and lost his footing as he landed, and raised his staff in time to block the double-headed axe. Which left the sword free. Hawke shifted quickly left as the sword came down, resounding against the stone floor, barely missing his ear. He shifted right as the sword came down again.

_"That's not fair!"_

_Malcolm was laughing, already healing the burn on his own arm. "What's not fair, Garrett?"_

_"You burnt yourself to get to me!"_

_"Sometimes, kid, that's what you need to do."_

_Malcolm ruffled his hair and healed Garrett's burn, and they continued their lesson._

Hawke pushed at the axe but the Arishok was too big, and the sword was lifting again. He cried out, muscles straining, and felt the pull of the Fade as he lifted them both up several feet in the air with a spell. At once, his skin shimmered and a rock-like formation encased his body. He was prepared for the shock of the stone when the first spell slammed him down against it. But the Arishok was not. He dropped his sword. A breath of telekinetic power and the sword was swept away into the crowd. Hawke, slightly dazed, pushed a hand against the Arishok's chest, palm lighting in fire.

The Arishok growled something in Qunlat, and Hawke increased the fire, then breathed in a force wave of energy. His muscles strained, the vestiges of his mana pool giving him a last burst of power. The Arishok flew across the room, landing hard on the stairs. Hawke stood, using his staff to pull himself to his feet. His shoulder ached and he noticed it was bleeding. A wave of nausea rolled over him and he staggered. Then, amazingly, his head cleared and his muscles stopped quivering. He looked over.

Anders.

Anders, clutching his coat like it was a life raft. Hawke wondered if the spell was cheating, but found he didn't care. He approached the Arishok slowly. He tried to get to his feet, but Hawke could see a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. There was a bubbling burn mark on his chest, hand-shaped from Hawke's fire spell. It had burned so hotly, it was likely cooking his organs still.

"We…" the Arishok coughed, spattering blood from his lips, over his chin and chest. "One day we… shall return."

He lifted a clawed hand, and Hawke spun his staff, green stone pointed at the Arishok. It could have ended differently, he thought. But this was how it needed to be. A bolt of crackling electricity shot from the stone, caught the Arishok directly in his chest where it exploded in a burst of light and heat. The Arishok cried out, slumped to the steps, and lay dead.

Despite Anders' spell, Hawke felt sore, fatigued. His mana was exhausted. He needed to sit, to lie down, to sleep. Leaning heavily on his staff, he watched as another Qunari looked at the Arishok, then nodded to his fellow. Hawke staggered a bit and raised his staff, though he had no idea how he'd defend himself against them if they decided to attack. Then to his relief, they merely collected the Arishok's weapons and walked away.

Meredith raised her sword, but Hawke called out, "Let them go."

For whatever reason, perhaps to spare her own men the inevitable fight, she stood aside. The Qunari were leaving peaceably now. It was over.

-

It was over, and Anders couldn't relax. He stood, tense and watching as the Qunari filed out. No one stopped them, though the Templars seemed ready for a fight. Meredith held a hand out, a signal for them to stand down. Aveline followed her example. Orsino strode forward toward Hawke, and Anders noticed Hawke nearly collapsed in the First Enchanter's arms. But Anders still couldn't move. Even as the nobles swarmed, cheering - _cheering_ \- for Hawke. He could barely see Hawke now, surrounded as he was as people clapped him on the back, touching his hair, his arms, shouting in celebration. And all Anders could do was stand there and wait.

"He did exceptionally well," Fenris said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Anders, Fenris, Isabela and Filet had kept back, letting Hawke have his moment. The cheering died down as Meredith shouldered her way through the crowd. Her face was pinched, eyes narrowed. Anders' breath caught in his chest. Would she arrest Hawke? He was still breaking Chantry law. An apostate. A mage outside the Circle who'd done magic – powerful magic – in front of half the nobility in Kirkwall. She had enough Templars with which to take him, too. Would Carver be the one to put the manacles around his brother's wrists? Would Meredith give him that? Anders betted she would.

"Well done," Meredith said, extreme reluctance in her voice, her face betraying her obvious annoyance. "It appears that Kirkwall has a new champion."

The nobles erupted into cheers again, and Orsino took Hawke's wrist, raising it into the air. Hawke managed a weak smile.

"Ridiculous," Fenris said, but he was smirking slightly. "We should go."

Anders was reluctant to leave. It didn't appear Hawke was going to be arrested though, and as _he_ hadn't dueled any Qunari to the death, he doubted the stay of execution would be extended to him. Isabela seemed to have the same idea. Anders looked down to Filet. The mabari _wuffed_ at him and wagged his tail. He hesitated, then gently patted his head.

"Stay. We're going to Hawke's estate."

The mabari barked softly, and Anders was grateful for the intelligence of the creature. He followed Fenris and Isabela along the edges of the room and they were able to slip out, avoiding both Templars and City Guard. The rest of the Keep was still dark. Seneschal Bran had been relocated, likely to the hospital for his leg. Outside, the bodies of a dozen Qunari lay dead, along with three of the Guard and one Templar. The Qunaris' weapons were gone, collected by their fellows. 

They crossed the courtyard, down the steps and into Hawke's home. It was earlier that afternoon Anders remembered making the exact same trek, listening to Hawke rant about the viscount's ineptitude. It seemed ages ago. It was a cliché, he knew, to think that. But the quiet of their lives or as quiet as he could come to expect being with Hawke, was gone. Hawke was a champion now, a hero. And while he'd always been helping Kirkwall in his own way, running errands, clearing the streets of the gangs the Guard never seemed to be able to, this was the first anyone had acknowledged it.

Was there place in a hero's life for Anders? He felt deflated at the thought. Hawke was an apostate like him. And while he did feel a very small curl of jealousy, he knew Hawke earned every bit of it. He'd not only done well for himself as a Fereldan refugee, fleeing the Blight and overcoming all odds to raise through the dregs of Lowtown to a mansion in Hightown, coin enough to buy even another one, and now a title, he'd done it as a mage. He was a status symbol of hope for refugees and mages alike. And Anders… he had his own work he needed to focus on now.

_Finally._

Justice positively purred in his chest. Could spirits even purr? It was a prideful feeling. Not what Justice was exuding, but that Justice was accepting of his decision. He nodded, making up his mind, and started up the stairs.

"Anders!" Isabela called.

"Bodahn and Orana will take care of you. Food, baths, whatever you need," he said. "Tell him what happened. That Hawke says it's okay if you stay. Might want to send word to Varric as well. He'll be with Merrill, likely."

"And what about you?" she asked.

Anders looked down at her and Fenris from the balcony. "I have to do what I can for the people in Darktown."

Let the nobles celebrate. His clinic would be open tonight. He let himself into Hawke's bedroom – for he couldn't think of it now as _their_ bedroom – and dropped Hawke's coat on the bed. He gathered his bag from the bottom of the armoire and took two lyrium potions from the desk drawer. He would pay Hawke back. Gathering his papers, scribbles of his manifesto, he stuffed them in a book and tucked the book in his bag before looking at the desk. With a frown, he picked up the quill and removed the stopper from the ink pot, dipped it in and let the quill hover above the parchment. Two drops of black ink dripped to the paper before he started to write.

_Garrett,_

_I'll pay you back for the lyrium potions._

_A_

He paused, wanting to write more, wanting to write down everything he felt, to explain what he was doing, why he was doing it, why he needed to do it. Instead, he stoppered the ink and laid the quill down. Shouldering his bag, he left quickly, stealing down a side passage to avoid Bodahn or anyone else who would try to stop him. How long would it take Hawke to find the letter? Would Hawke come after him? Did he want Hawke to come after him?

_Yes._

He hesitated, hand on the basement door. He could go back. Sit and wait for Hawke to come home. No. He was needed. Too many were injured or worse in the attack. He pushed the door open and started down into the dark, knowing the path well enough that he didn't need light to see. The trap door creaked and he lowered himself, letting it fall above him. As he descended the ladder, he saw that quite a few people had sought his aid. His doorstep was cramped with the injured, at least two dozen there and more lining the path that led up the stairs to the landing.

"The Healer!" someone shouted.

Anders allowed them crowd him, some crying, most of them bleeding, begging him. He quickly downed a lyrium potion and edged his way through, unlocking his doors.

"Anders!"

He turned. Lirene pushed her way through the crowd. He offered her a tired smile and felt himself relax a bit in her embrace.

"These people need help," he said. "I could use a hand."

They were already pushing into the clinic, seeking beds, anxious to be seen. But something was wrong. Lirene's eyes were full of tears. Anxiety gripped him.

"What?"

"It's Selby," she whispered. "Anders, she didn't make it."

He swayed, head spinning slightly, and had to grip onto her arm to steady himself. "Selby."

"She tried to get away, but… she was trampled in crowd. Along with a dozen others. I saw…"

Anders swallowed, nodding. He slid an arm around her shoulders and held her tightly, kissing her forehead. "Where… is she?"

"Gabe brought her body to the shop. So many went there. I did what I could. We couldn't find you."

Guilt tore at his chest. He pushed it away. "We have work to do now. I'll… I'll explain what I can."

He owed Lirene that much. She wiped her eyes and pulled from his embrace. He followed her into the clinic and opened his cabinets, pulling out bandages. Someone brought water and he boiled it with a touch of his hand. The clinic was nearly full to bursting, more wounded on his doorstep and yet more arriving. It would be a long, long night.

-

The sun was starting to rise, almost five hours since the Arishok's defeat had passed. Anders had lost count of how many wounded he'd seen to, how many people thanked him, blessed him. He ran out of lyrium, and Lirene fetched more. It wasn't healthy, wasn't a good idea to drink so much in such a short amount of time and he was feeling sick from it. But still he pushed on, exhausted, muscles aching, hands shaking. Gabe and a few of his friends joined them at some point, bringing blankets and sheets, wrapping the bodies of the dead and bringing them out amidst sobbing family members. For every one Anders saved, at least one more died.

He'd known from the very beginning of the revelation of his healing abilities that he wouldn't be able to save everyone. His tutor Wynne had taught him that, told him her stories of the people she'd lost. Good men. But every time there was a battle, a conflict, she would go. Anders asked her why, if people died.

_"Just because the fight seems hopeless, it doesn't mean we shouldn't fight."_

He applied it to a lot of things in his life. His struggle – the mages' struggle – was an uphill battle. It seemed hopeless, but he would fight. With or without Hawke by his side. Hawke. He'd tried not to think of him the whole night, but Hawke continued to float back into his mind as the night wore on. He wondered where Hawke had gone after the fight. Did Meredith decide to arrest him after all, after the nobles left? Anders shook his head.

"All right?" Lirene asked, hand on his shoulder.

"Tired. But yes. Lirene… Selby…"

"There wasn't anything you could have done," Lirene said quietly.

She was stacking bandages, taking stock of what was left. His supplies had been nearly depleted. The clinic was quiet, beds cleared. Gabe and his friends were cleaning, mopping the blood from the tables, dragging sand over the blood on the ground. Anders doused the lanterns and closed one of the doors. He doubted he would see any more patients tonight. He'd saved everyone he could. He should feel good about it, but he just felt empty.

Lirene stood, closing the cabinet, and called to Gabe. He went over, accepting the arm around his shoulder. She led him to the entrance, leaned up and kissed Anders on the cheek.

"I want to pay for her funeral," Anders said. 

Lirene shook her head. "She'll get a burial but no funeral. She wasn't anyone in this town. The Chantry won't care. But I'll make sure she doesn't end up in a mass grave or in the sea."

"I want to be there," he said. "Selby, she's…"

"I know, love," Lirene said, patting his cheek. "She wouldn't want you to blame yourself."

"Would she be angry that I wasn't here? That I was…"

"You made a choice. You helped stop the attack in the best way you knew how to. I think she would've understood."

Anders nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed her, and watched her go, leading Gabe and his friends out. Sighing, he looked around. The clinic was as clean as it would get tonight. This morning, he reminded himself, as the morning rays of light shone dimly through his high windows. He would wash up, see if there was even a crust of bread left to eat, and pass out on his cot. First, he would lock up. The door was almost shut when a hand grabbed the wood. Anders leapt back, reaching for a defensive spell through his exhaustion, when the door wrenched open.

"Anders!"

"Hawke?"

Hawke was there, still in the clothing he'd been in at the Keep, still dirty, sweaty, blood splattered on his clothing. If he'd gone home, it hadn't been to wash or change. Anders backed up, stumbling a bit and Hawke's hand shot out, grabbing him to keep from falling. He pulled him close and Anders put a hand on his chest to keep him back.

"Anders?"

Anders couldn't look at him. The hurt in his tone, the confusion in his face. "Just go, Hawke."

"I figured you'd be here, but why didn't you come back? What did that note mean? Come home with me. I have so much to tell you."

Anders sighed. Perhaps he should've left a more comprehensive note. He felt naked, exposed, standing there in the middle of his clinic in only a dirty and blood-stained shirt and pants. His robes were tossed over the side of partitioned off bed/office area, discarded because they were in the way of his work. But mostly he felt exhausted, too tired to explain himself.

"I came here to help the wounded," Anders said.

"I gathered. But why didn't you come back home?" Hawke pressed again.

The way Hawke said the word, it implied that it was Anders' home as well. And hadn't it been? For weeks now, he returned with Hawke to fall asleep with him and wake up next to him. Bodahn treated him with the same respect, and Orana asked him questions like, 'What color should I use for the new quilt for your bed?' That green and black quilt was still folded at the foot of Hawke's bed, too. But it wasn't his home. He had no place next to the Champion of Kirkwall. Not now. Not with Selby gone and the underground needing someone to step up, to take charge. Lirene might have, but while she was sympathetic to the mage plight, it wasn't her fight. Selby had lost a sister, Anders a lover. And so much more. Anders had a point of contact in the Circle. He needed to get in touch with Thrask. To organize their next move. And he couldn't jeopardize Hawke's status, his tentative sway over Meredith. And Anders wouldn't ask him, wouldn't presume upon him to use his influence to engage in highly illegal activities like sneaking mages from the Circle.

"Anders, talk to me," Hawke pleaded.

"Just go, Hawke," he said, his voice breaking, still not looking at him.

Silence for a moment, then Hawke walked away. The door shut. Anders looked up. Hawke was still standing there, locking up.

"What are you doing?" Anders asked, confused. "You should go. You should leave me."

Hawke rounded on him and approached so fast that Anders thought he was going to hit him. But instead, Hawke pulled him close, grabbing his wrist so he couldn't step away, and kissed him. It was soft but insistent. It lacked any anger, but held confusion. Hawke was… trembling. Shivering. Anders frowned into the kiss, and returned it slowly. Wrong, he thought. He should push him away. Send him back to his estate. Tell him again that he was not good for him. Hawke pulled back slowly, and his eyes were glassy. Tears?

"If you won't come home with me, I'm staying with you here," he said, and though he was quiet and still shaking a bit, his tone was strong.

Anders recognized that tone. When Hawke spoke like that, there would be no changing his mind. "Hawke."

"Garrett."

They stared at each other a moment. Green eyes, wet as they were, still held his own. Hawke would not blink, would not look away, and would not accept anything less than a full explanation. Anders sighed and reached up with his free hand, pulling the tie from his hair. It fell around his face, greasy and sticky with blood. He ran his fingers through it, wincing when he caught on a knot. "Garrett," he relented. "You shouldn't be with me. I'll only break your heart. I'll hurt you."

"I'll take that chance. But I don't think you will."

"I'm serious," Anders said, willing him to go away. To let go of his wrist. To run back to Hightown. "Please listen to me."

"I've seen you, Anders," Hawke said quietly. "I've seen who you are. I've seen Justice, but I've seen beyond that. I know…"

Anders waited, frowning. Hawke struggled for words.

"You trusted me with him. With your pain. Your history. What you went through in the Circle, as a Warden. I trusted you with my… my past. My father. Bethany. You were there when Mother died. I know you," he said. "And you know me."

Hawke's chest hitched. He swallowed hard, Anders could see his Adam's apple bobbing even in the dim light of the room. This man who was so strong, who joked, _laughed_ while they fought side by side. Who threw out horrible puns and one-liners, who bantered with Varric, who lost at cards to Isabela, who had the patience to deal with Fenris and Merrill. To deal with all of them, really, and to deal with Kirkwall's insanity. He fought for the innocent, and battled against injustice. Anders had seen him at his worst, after Leandra's death. And at his best, defeating one of the most powerful warriors the city had ever seen, and living to tell the tale. He'd kissed him, held him, healed his wounds and shared stories with him both good and bad. They fought, they fucked, and did it all again the very next day. Apart from Justice, there was no one else who knew him better. And to hear Hawke say it, there was no one else but Anders who knew him as well. And Hawke was here now, baring his soul, raw and emotional, near tears, standing before him.

Anders felt a painful tug at his heart. He hated it. While Hawke's admission of love frightened him, what scared him worse was how much he wanted it, needed it. A man he'd craved for three years, a man he'd fantasized about, who kept him awake at night, who admitted wanting him. Who loved him, who kissed him with reckless abandon when they were alone, who whispered affections into his ear as they laid in bed together, naked, bodies sliding against one another, fitting together as if they were made for one another.

"Maker, Garrett," Anders let out in a shaky breath. "I…"

"What are you so scared of?"

_Losing you._

The thought came so quickly and easily, but he couldn't say it. Anders shifted, and Hawke released his wrist, but Anders didn't step away. Instead, he took Hawke's hands, held on tightly. "What if… what if the Knight-Commander turns on you? You're in danger. What if your coin and status isn't enough?"

_I can't lose you like that._

Another thought that pained him, that made his stomach twist and writhe.

"I spent the last few hours in the Gallows," Hawke said quietly. "There was… a lot of talking. Discussion. Orsino pushed for my staying out of the Circle. The Knight-Captain even spoke up for me, though he didn't seem too happy to. I think he felt a little betrayed even though a part of him probably knew I'm a mage. But Meredith will not go against the nobility. A lot of them spoke out for me, talked about the good I was doing for Kirkwall, not just with the Qunari. They think it's a… novelty-" and his lip curled in amusement "-to have a mage savior. Something to go down in the history books. I'm a bit of a trophy now."

That didn't make Anders feel any better. It was another cage. Prettier, gilded, perhaps. But a cage nonetheless. And Hawke was stuck harder than most. He was in the spotlight now, with a very captive audience. "You struck a deal with her," he concluded sourly.

Hawke nodded. "I continue to protect the city-"

Anders scowled. "Only now you might actually receive credit for it."

"And she keeps me out of the Gallows."

"And when she decides she's had enough of that?" Anders asked. "You must see this cannot last."

"Then I take my money and my status and leave." He paused. "With you." Then frowned. "If… you would come."

Anders let out tired sigh. Hawke wouldn't hear it, not now. It wasn't as easy as he put it. Meredith wouldn’t let him just walk away. He swayed, then closed the small gap between them, leaning against Hawke, resting his head on his shoulder. Hawke wrapped his arms around his waist and held tightly. They stayed like that for some time, Anders holding him loosely, breathing in the scent of fire and smoke, and also blood and sweat. But there was something behind those that was simply Hawke. Magic. The pull of the Fade. The ease he felt when he was with another mage. But Hawke wasn't just another mage. He was… something special. 

"I don't care what happens to myself," Anders said finally. "But if Meredith thinks she can hurt you…" He squeezed his eyes shut, flashes of memory through his head.

_The mark of Tranquility on Karl's forehead._

_Karl begging for death._

_Ella's pleas as Alrik threatened her._

_Alain's face as he spoke of his being forced to pleasure Templars to avoid worse._

_The Tranquils walking around the Gallows, hawking their wares._

_The mages that thank him, that kiss the ground as he leads them to safety._

_Selby's death._

"I would drown us in blood to keep you safe," Anders said finally, and he heard his voice, strong and deep, Justice's influence.

"Please calm down," Hawke whispered, gently rubbing his back now. "I won't let Meredith hurt me. I swear it."

Anders nodded, gripping Hawke's tunic tightly. "Fight with me. Help me."

Hawke stepped back, and Anders looked into his eyes. Soft, understanding. A second later he was kissing Hawke again, unsure who'd initiated it and he was lost in the feeling. Both were too tired to do any more, but the kiss held a promise of a lifetime. When they broke apart, Anders was breathless, dizzy. Hawke cupped his face, pressing his forehead against Anders'. Anders reached up, gripping his wrists, thumbs brushing along the back of his hands.

"I love you," Hawke whispered.

Anders felt himself smile. "I love you, too."

"Come home."

"My things…"

Hawke stepped away, and Anders felt a part of himself go with him. Hawke gathered up his bag and coat and books, shifting them to one arm so he could pick up his staff. Malcolm's staff. Anders frowned. He'd been using it so long, he'd forgotten that it had belonged to Hawke's father. Hawke seemed to read his mind.

"I didn't think you really were going to stay away forever," he said with a cheeky grin.

Anders sighed, feeling defeated. "You're insufferable," he said affectionately.

"Hey, you have to be nice to me," Hawke replied, following Anders out of the clinic. "I killed the Arishok. Champion of Kirkwall now."

Anders groaned and locked up. "You're going to be even more impossible now."

"Yes," Hawke agreed. "But you love me."

Anders smiled, following him up into the basement of the estate.


	11. Chapter 11

Anders woke early in the afternoon, kissed Hawke goodbye and left the estate. They hadn't spoken much that morning upon arriving back home. Hawke made him promise he would return in the evening, and Anders agreed. They'd slept heavily, too exhausted to discuss anything else for the moment. Hawke would be spending the day helping Meredith and her Templars with the reparations in Hightown. Anders anticipated that. Why would Templars care about Lowtown? About Darktown? Their precious Gallows hadn't been attacked, but they needed to make a good show to the nobles.

The Chantry was out in droves, helping with the cleanup, removing rubble. Meredith made her Templars work through the night and the morning to remove the bodies from the streets, to clean away the blood from the stones. Qunari bodies were brought to the coast on large carts and burned. Anders could see the smoke as he descended into Lowtown, heading for Lirene's. There were still a great many people who needed help, more so now than ever before.

The City Guard was out in full force, Aveline included. Anders caught her eye briefly, and she turned away. Hawke's influence, perhaps. He would need to speak with Hawke, to pull the details of his meeting with Meredith, to see what Aveline had to say about the whole affair. More importantly, Anders needed to know if he, or any of the people he knew, were in trouble. There were whispers of mages escaping the Gallows during the attacks, and it wasn't just the Guard in Lowtown. Anders turned down a side alley more than once to get away from several Templar Hunters. He watched them drag a girl away for questioning, and Justice burned in his brain.

There was nothing he could do about it. Not now. Not in the middle of the afternoon, surrounded by dozens of innocent civilians. The girl wasn't even a mage, she'd only been accused of helping her cousin. Harboring apostates was starting to become a capital offense, one that wasn't easily bribed away, especially in Lowtown of all places.

He found himself heading to the Hanged Man when night began to fall. Getting a letter to Norah to deliver to Thrask was still his best chance to arrange a meeting. If Thrask knew the names of the mages that had fled during the attack, Anders could warn their families ahead of time. Perhaps he'd be able to save a life or two in the process. But Norah wasn't working that evening. Frustrated, he turned to leave, pushing himself away from the bar and from Corff, who'd offered him a drink 'on the house'. Which really meant on Varric's tab.

"Blondie!"

Speaking of Varric.

Anders turned around to greet his friend. Varric waved him over to a corner table, and Anders sat heavily across from him.

"You look dead on your feet," Varric said. He carefully cut apart the last of the roast chicken sitting in front of him and put it on a plate. Dolloping a generous portion of mashed potatoes from a large bowl, he pushed the whole thing over to Anders and poured him a glass of wine. "Eat."

Anders would've argued, but he'd not eaten that day. In fact, the last time he'd eaten was yesterday morning, a light brunch with Hawke before they'd gone to see the viscount. His stomach protested loudly his thoughts of declining a meal, and he ate with gusto. Varric watched him a moment, refilling his own cup before settling back. Books and papers were spread out in front of him, which seemed the norm of late.

"So. Champion of Kirkwall," Varric said.

Anders frowned, looking down at the roast chicken in front of him. He swallowed, then sipped his wine. "Yes."

"Word gets around fast. But the details are muddied. I regret not being there, but I can't say I fancied the idea of fighting through a dozen or more Qunari to get to the Keep. Care to fill in the details? Quash the rumors?"

"Varric, is my name among these rumors?"

Varric let out a laugh. "No. To hear everyone tell it, Hawke charged in all on his own, beheading thirty Qunari before viciously setting the Arishok on fire. Or the other version where Hawke saved the Knight-Commander from being killed when the Arishok wanted her head. Speaking of heads, Dumar – he's really dead?"

Anders watched Varric pick up his pen, not a cheap quill like the ones he collected in the docks when the gulls dropped them. A wooden construct with a metal tip that was designed for holding just the right amount of ink. He would have to ask Varric how expensive they were. He took another sip of wine.

"The viscount's dead. The Arishok took his head."

"Mm."

Varric was scribbling as Anders spoke, asking for factual details. Anders wondered just how many facts would end up in Varric's tales and how many would be embellishments. He started from the moment they left the alley, including meeting Stroud and the other Wardens, ending with Hawke's victory.

"And you just… left?" Varric asked, pen pausing as he looked up.

"I didn't wait around to see if Meredith would arrest me, no," Anders said curtly. He drained his wine and looked forlornly at his plate, which was empty now aside from the scrapings of the last of the potatoes.

Varric waved Edwina over. "One of those spice cakes you're so good at making," he said. "And coffee."

Anders frowned. "Varric-"

"Consider it repayment for the information for a book that, when I finish, will be worth millions."

Edwina cleared the dirty dishes and brought a very large cake, two plates and a sharp knife. She poured coffee and cream and scowled when Varric winked at her. Varric leaned forward and cut a large piece for Anders, who took it with relish. He savored the spicy sweetness, the crunch of walnuts. This was a rarity for him, even with his staying at Hawke's estate. To his knowledge, Hawke wasn't overly fond of sweets, having grown up with a distinct lack of sugar. The man didn't even take any in his coffee.

"So where did you go after? What happened after Hawke left the Keep? Did he seek you out? Ravish you in his estate in a victory celebration?"

Anders nearly choked on his cake. "What is your obsession with Hawke ravishing me? It's not the first time you've asked about our… ah, personal lives."

Varric chuckled, smirking as he sat back. "I've always had an eye for good investments, Blondie. You talked to me about your crush on Hawke years ago, and I aim to see it through to the end. Not to mention we're friends. And you could do with a bit of ravishing."

Anders scoffed. "The amount of ravishing I'm either experiencing or not is none of your business."

"All right, all right," Varric said. "But you know I'm just going to make it all up."

"He was with the Knight-Commander after." Anders laughed at the face Varric made, and took another slice of cake. He was feeling full and sated, and the looming prospects of what needed to be done in future seemed far away.

"What did they talk about?" Varric asked, pen raised again. He looked up as the door opened. "Never mind, I can get the details from the man of the hour himself. Hawke!"

Anders glanced back to see Hawke approaching. Luckily the Hanged Man wasn't too crowded and he drew only a few stares. Looking exhausted, he slumped in a seat next to Anders and immediately picked up his coffee mug, taking a long sip.

"You could get your own," Anders muttered.

"Yours was available," he said, leaning over to grasp Varric's hand. "I would've come sooner."

Varric shook his head. "Oh please, Champion of Kirkwall. I'm sure you had more important things to deal with than checking up on little old me."

"Speaking of checking up," Hawke said, now helping himself to the cake on Anders' plate, "thank you for looking in on my uncle."

"He wasn't the happiest when I gave him the news." He did a spot on perfect impersonation of Gamlen. "'What's my fool nephew gone and gotten himself into this time. I swear if he gets himself killed.'"

Hawke laughed. "I bet he was disappointed when I turned up alive. He could claim the estate for himself as the last Amell." 

There was affection in his tone, though. As big an ass Gamlen was, Anders knew Hawke still counted him as family. Possibly more so than Carver now.

Hawke reached for the coffee pot and refilled Anders' cup before taking another sip. "And Merrill?" he prompted.

"She wanted to help," Varric said.

Hawke looked surprised at this. "Oh? I thought after the whole debacle with the mirror…"

"She's got a good heart," Varric replied gently. "It's in the right place, even if she gets a bit emotional."

They discussed what happened at the Gallows, Anders listening to the details he hadn't gotten that morning when he and Hawke talked about it. Varric jotted down important points, pressing him for more. Anders noticed that Varric didn't ask _Hawke_ about their sex life. A part of him wondered if Hawke would give the details or not. It was slightly embarrassing but flattering at the same time.

"Well," Hawke said at last, "it's been a long day of shifting rock and signing autographs."

"Are you serious?" Anders asked, looking up at him as Hawke stood.

Hawke winked. "Maybe. Are you coming with me?"

Anders could feel Varric's eyes on him, pen poised. He thought about Lirene, thought about the people who still needed his help. Though there weren't many anymore, and his clinic had only seen a few stragglers that day. Lirene had things well in hand, and the generous donation he gave – almost all of what was left of his Deep Roads funds – would ensure that people had beds to sleep on and food to eat. At least enough to get them through this disaster. He could go back and help shift rubble and rebuild Lowtown, but the Guard was out in full force and it was about time they started taking responsibility for the city they swore to protect. And his mind abruptly shifted to a hot bath and clean sheets.

"I think I will." He looked to Varric. "Does Thrask still come in here often?"

Varric nodded. "Every once in a while. We'll have a drink, play a round of Wicked Grace."

"Can you tell him…" He frowned a bit, not liking how Hawke looked at him with such scrutiny. "Tell him Selby's dead and I need to talk to him."

"Sure thing. Someone you knew?" Varric asked carefully.

"She was… a friend."

Varric made a sympathetic noise. "Sorry."

"It's… Thank you, Varric."

Varric nodded, and Anders stood to follow Hawke. They walked a bit in silence, Anders noting that the streets were a bit more crowded than they would normally be at this hour. As they gained the steps into Hightown he paused, watching Templars working, shifting rock and repairing craters in the roads. Hawke took his elbow.

"Just stay with me. They wouldn't dare."

"How can you be sure?"

"If they want you," Hawke said, his tone quiet and serious, "they'll have to come through me."

Anders nodded and let Hawke lead him through the market square toward the estate. More people here greeted Hawke with enthusiasm but seemed to ignore Anders, which suited him fine. When they were inside, Hawke looked at him.

"Why didn't you tell me about Selby?"

Anders frowned, leaning back against the wall. "It didn't seem important. You were dealing with other things. The fight, Meredith. Being a hero," he added with a hint of fondness. "I didn't want to bother you with it."

"But it _is_ important, Anders. She was a good friend to you, wasn't she?"

Anders didn't meet Hawke's eyes, looking down instead. Hawke stepped close, taking him gently by the arms.

"Yes," Anders said quietly. He'd pushed Selby from his mind, hadn't even gone to her grave yet. Lirene said she was buried that morning. Her sister – a tranquil mage – was informed that afternoon. He hadn't allowed himself time to mourn.

Hawke closed the gap between them, hugging him tightly. Anders let out a shaking breath, and gripped him, face buried in Hawke's shoulder. A sudden sharp rapping on the door interrupted them, Hawke swearing quietly before kissing Anders on the cheek.

"I'll just be a moment."

He waved Bodahn off, who'd come in from the side corridor to get the door, and left the room for the foyer. Anders listened, head inclined toward the hall. He raised a finger to his lips, signaling for Bodahn to be quiet. The dwarf nodded and backed away, out of view of the doorway.

"What do you want?" Hawke's terse growl. "It's late."

Silence for a moment, then: "Can I come in?"

Carver. Anders recognized his cocky tone and the clinking of Templar plate.

"Why?"

"Just to talk."

"It's not a good time."

The sound of the door about to shut, Carver's foot or hand blocking it.

"Garrett, hear me out."

A pause, then: "You have five minutes."

Shuffling and the door shut. Anders peeked around the corner, keeping his back to the wall. He saw the back of Hawke's head, his resolute stance, arms crossed. Carver stood in full Templar plate, helmet held under his right arm. He looked uncomfortable.

"I never wanted Meredith to find out about you."

"It's not your fault," Hawke said, a bit more graciously than he needed to, in Anders' opinion.

"It's just, you know. Now with Mother gone and all."

"Do not talk to me about Mother. You didn't even come to the funeral."

Anders frowned. He couldn't remember seeing Carver there, but hadn't given it a second thought. He'd just barely begun a relationship with Hawke and was too focused on making sure he had everything he needed, helping him organize the funeral, to notice who'd shown up.

"I was there. I saw Sebastian give the eulogy. Why didn't you-"

"Why didn't you?" Hawke snarled.

Carver shifted a little, but held his brother's gaze. Anders couldn't take this anymore. He turned and strode into the foyer, stopping just behind Hawke, pleased when Carver looked over at him in annoyance.

"What do you want?" Carver asked.

"Just here for the scintillating conversation and the pleasure of your company."

Carver frowned. "Why are you even here? It's not your house. Don't you live in some shithole in Darktown?"

Anders opened his mouth to retort, but Hawke cut him off. "He lives here, not that it's any of your business since you don't."

"Yeah," Carver said, irritated. "Yeah, that's right. All because you wouldn't let me go on your bloody expedition. Fine. Whatever, Garrett. Just thought I'd come by as a courtesy to let you know, but forget it."

"Know what?" Hawke demanded.

"Too late," Carver said, and turned to go.

Hawke raised a hand, casting a force wave that knocked Carver off his feet, dropping his helmet. Carver immediately rolled to his back and threw out his own arm, and Anders felt the familiar disconnect from the Fade, a cleansing rite. Weaker than Meredith's, but it served its purpose. Hawke, who didn't take kindly to it, reached down and grabbed Carver by the neck of his plate cuirass and hauled him up at an angle. Anders winced as Hawke's fist connected with a _crack_ against Carver's jaw. Carver struggled, grabbing Hawke's arm, trying both to pry him off and move out of the way of the next punch, which caught him in the eye.

"Hawke!" Anders cried, as Hawke reeled back again. He grabbed Hawke's arm and pulled hard.

Hawke looked back at Anders, livid, but calmed at seeing the look on his face. Anders gave one more tug, and Hawke let Carver drop. He stood and stepped back, and Anders removed a handkerchief from his robes, dropping it at Carver's side.

"I'd heal you," he snapped, "but I seem to not have the ability to cast spells."

Carver glared at the handkerchief, which was covered in dirt and blood, and got gracelessly to his feet. He leaned over and snatched up his helmet before looking back to Hawke. "You could've had an ally in the Gallows."

"Get out," Hawke growled.

Carver wrenched open the door, then turned. His lip was cut and bleeding and his eye was already starting to puff up. "Meredith's going to have people watching you and your house. Tails. So keep your nose clean, _brother_."

He left, slamming the door.

"I hope he didn't think he was doing me any favors by telling me that," Hawke said, leaning over and picking up the handkerchief from the floor. "As if I couldn't figure that out for myself." He walked back into the main hall, handing the handkerchief to Bodahn. "If my brother or anyone else comes back, tell them I've retired for the evening and I'm not to be disturbed."

Bodahn inclined his head. "Very good, messere."

"And," he added, "has the new tub been brought over?"

"Yes it has, messere. And my cousin installed the pump herself. She's a crafty one, she is. Shall I draw you a bath?"

Hawke shook his head. "I can handle that. Can you have Orana change the linens on the bed? We weren't exactly our cleanest when we retired this morning."

Anders remembered washing his hands and face, slipping out of his coat and boots and passing out face down in the pillow.

"Of course, messere."

"Thank you, Bodahn. That'll be it for the evening."

Bodahn nodded again and left to handle the laundry.

"Tub and pump?" Anders asked.

Hawke took his hand and led him down the hallway, toward the kitchens. "It was supposed to be a surprise, and then things got a little… busy. But I think we could both use a nice long soak. And you can talk to me about Selby," he said gently.

Anders sighed. Hawke wasn't going to let this go. But it was nice to have someone who cared. Hawke hadn't known Selby that well, but he did know what she'd meant to Anders. And as Hawke pumped and heated bathwater into the large, deep tub, filling the room with steam and the scent of vanilla and lavender, he decided that it might be cathartic to let it out. They undressed, tossing their clothes aside and Anders slipped into the blissfully hot water. Hawke settled in behind him.

"Mm," Hawke murmured, pulling him close, nipping his ear. "I wanted one big enough for two."

Anders leaned back against him. "It's large enough for four, Hawke. I think you overestimated the dimensions."

"So you're saying we could invite Isabel – Ow!"

Anders had pinched his knee hard. "No. None of that."

He let out a contented sigh as Hawke took up a cloth and started to wash his neck and shoulders.

"Talk to me," Hawke urged.

Anders started to relax under Hawke's careful attentions. He leaned forward, arms around his knees, resting his cheek on them and closed his eyes, and began to tell him about Selby, the underground, and the issues he would have to overcome. Hawke listened quietly, never interrupting, simply washing him meticulously. He pulled Anders back to dip his hair in the water, added a bit of herbal soap, and began to scrub.

"That… that's very distracting," Anders laughed quietly, feeling better to get this off his chest. He felt a lot of pressure. Justice's weight, the weight of the Circle, a potential meeting with the Grand Cleric that he'd been putting off since the death of the viscount's son.

"Good. You're too tense. Anders," he said, "I'll do everything in my power to help. I'm in a good position now. The people know I'm a mage. I saved the city. I can convince them to appoint a viscount who would be sympathetic."

"We're never going to see the freedom mages deserve until the Circle's dissolved," Anders muttered, and leaned back to let Hawke rinse his hair.

"Well…" Hawke said, "let's start with baby steps. We have more of a chance now than ever."

"I just don't want you to get too involved," Anders protested. He relaxed, letting Hawke drag the cloth along his legs, up his thighs, shivering a bit, feeling the stirring of arousal in his groin. "You're in a precarious position. You shouldn't get your hands dirty."

"Like I would let you do this alone."

"Not technically alone," Anders said, turning a bit to look at him. "I always have Justice."

Hawke smirked. "But can he do this?" he asked, cupping Anders' jaw, bringing him back for a kiss.

Anders returned it, feeling a stirring of irritation in his chest, and then it was gone. The absence itself was a relief, at least for now. He had no desire to share the next few hours with Justice as an unwilling voyeur.

-

It would take at least an estimated six months to fully repair the damage and clean the blood from the streets, replace and train all the lost men. But the following week, the nobility demanded a banquet in Hawke's honor. The Keep was cleaned, carpets replaced, broken shelves repaired. Nothing quite got the stain from the stairs though, and there was a faded streak of reddish-brown that led from the seneschal's office to the main floor. The servants did their best to hide it, and even the seneschal himself declined to talk about that night.

"I… hate… parties," Hawke said, sighing and tearing the cravat from his neck.

Anders grinned and took it from him, wrapping it around his throat and carefully knotting it. "It's a few hours so the nobility can lift you higher on the pedestal."

"You mean a few hours of them pawing at me," Hawke said. "You know just yesterday I was in the market and some old woman I never even met pinched my backside."

Anders reached around to grip the backside in question. "In her defense, it's very pinchable," he said, and did just that.

Hawke jumped. "Stop that."

"You are very grumpy today."

"It happens every time I need to dress up in stupid outfits."

Anders held him at arm's length to look him over. A dark grey cravat, cream colored shirt, and black vest. His black velvet coat with gold thread laced through it lay on the bed, pressed and waiting. The pants were also black velvet, something Anders had delighted in running his fingers over until Hawke demanded he stop, or they would be more than just fashionably late.

"It could be worse," Anders said, turning to tie his own cravat.

He'd chosen an outfit similar to Hawke's, but differing shades of white. The cuffs of his shirt were fashionably ruffled and covered his hands, and his coat was midnight blue. Hawke had pulled the tie from his hair and flung it from the window, and Anders begrudgingly combed it out and tucked it behind his ears. On occasion, it fell into his eyes and he blew it away, irritated. Hawke promised he'd buy him another tie, perhaps a ribbon, he joked.

"How could it possibly be worse?" Hawke asked, tugging at the cravat and scowling when Anders smacked his hand away.

"We could be going to an Orlesian party."

"Maker knows I have enough invitations to those. Now they're just going to start pouring in. I'll have to have Bodahn light the fires nightly just to be rid of them all."

Anders helped him on with his coat, straightening the lapels, and kissed him gently. "It's going to be a lavish dinner with a lot of snooty old bats who want to tell you how great you are, and thank you for your service to the city. And," he reminded him again, "it's only a few hours out of your night. And mine," he added.

Hawke sighed and relented. "Thank you for staying by my side through this."

"Well it's not just me," Anders said. "Didn't you say Aveline had to be there?"

"As her duty to the Guard, not out of any favor to me," Hawke replied. He and Aveline hadn't spoken since the night of the duel.

"And Varric?"

"He tried to pretend he had a Merchant's Guild meeting. When I helpfully reminded him that never goes to Guild meetings, he mentioned something about visiting his brother in the sanitarium."

Anders frowned. "Anyone else?"

"I'm not going to put Fenris through something like this, though I'm sure he'd come. And Merrill…"

"Hobnobbing with the nobility isn't exactly her place," Anders agreed. "Though it would be amusing, the way she goes on sometimes."

"And Isabela is laying low. I think Aveline is looking for any chance to arrest her for her involvement with the Arishok. The only thing that's keeping her from tearing apart Lowtown looking for her is that she know I'd stand up for her."

"Which is more than she deserves," Anders said, still feeling a bit bitter over the entire affair. Hawke was very quick to forgive.

"So it's just us," Hawke sighed. "Oh, and Sebastian. Don't make that face."

"What face?" Anders asked, innocent as he checked his hair one last time in the mirror.

"Like you're sucking on a lemon."

"I can't help it if I don't want to talk to a man who has Andraste's face on his crotch. It's distracting. Like she's peering into my soul."

"Oh?" Hawke teased. "You enjoy looking at Sebastian's crotch?"

"Maker forfend my eyes stray to any crotch, man's or woman's other than yours."

Hawke looked at him for a moment, perhaps to see if he was teasing. Anders grinned.

"You're an ass," Hawke said, but laughed.

"I am," Anders agreed. "Come, let's have a night of crotch-watching and backside-pinching," he said, taking Hawke's arm and pulling him out into the twilight.

They crossed the square, watching as others arrived from different corners of Hightown, Hawke nodding at a few who recognized him. Women covered their mouths with gloved hands, whispering to their friends with enthusiasm.

"Maker save me," Hawke muttered.

Two of the City Guard stood at the doors of the Keep, which had been propped open. They bowed to Hawke, who waved half-heartedly. Anders dropped Hawke's arm, but stood near him. He'd been somewhat excited to attend, proud and pleased when Hawke invited – insisted – he come along. Even if it was just for moral support, it felt nice to act important for an evening. Even if he was only playing a role. And, if he played his cards just right, he might be able to determine which nobles might be sympathetic to the mage plight. A little alcohol in the right hands and he could discover potential new allies in the nobility.

Upon entering the Keep, Anders was impressed that the decorations were kept to a minimum. Perhaps they weren't eager to have an ostentatious celebration in a place where their viscount was beheaded only a week ago. Looking around, he noticed long tables set up along the walls weighed down with food and drink, elven servants moving through the crowd expertly, carrying cheese plates and glasses of champagne. Noble men and women as well as Chantry officiates milled together, discussing the finer points of being dull and boring. 

"Seneschal!" Hawke said, and Anders groaned.

Bran turned from the woman he was speaking with, excusing himself. He was wearing a ridiculously padded orange doublet and leaning heavily on a lion-topped cane. As he stepped forward, he limped. Shifting champagne glass to the hand holding his cane, he shook Hawke's hand, but not Anders'.

"They couldn't fix your leg?" Hawke asked.

"The First Enchanter's spirit healers were sadly killed in the massacre," Bran said, though he didn't seem too put out by it. In fact, Anders thought he sounded downright nonchalant discussing the deaths of mages. "The Qunari used some type of poison that spread to the muscle. I'll be taking medication for it for a few weeks until it sorts itself out. Thank you for your concern."

Hawke briefly glanced at Anders who shook his head surreptitiously. He'd make Hawke promise that under no circumstances would he mention Anders as beyond anything but a friend. Hawke pursed his lips and looked back to Bran.

"Of course. I do hope they give you something for the pain. Any word on when a new viscount will be appointed?"

Bran looked scandalized. "It is not something to discuss here, and definitely not your affair, serah. I suggest you enjoy the celebration and leave the appointment of the viscount to whom it belongs."

Hawke waited until Bran's back was turned before mocking him. He sighed and looked to Anders. "Five minutes in and I find myself wishing we were at the Hanged Man drinking bad ale and singing canticles with made up dirty lyrics."

"Isn't that how you normally spend your evenings?" Anders asked.

"Yes, and I see no reason to change a good thing. Oh, hello ladies," Hawke said, for he'd been accosted by three elderly women who began to dote on him at once, demanding to see him perform magic. "I'm sure First Enchanter Orsino is here somewhere. He can show you his fireballs."

Anders turned away to cover a laugh, coughing into his hand.

"Besides," Hawke said, leaning down a bit, conspiratorially. "I'm not entirely sure the Knight-Commander would be pleased. She doesn't exactly like me flaunting my magic, you know?"

"Of course, dearie!" one of them said.

"We understand completely!" said another.

"If you change your mind," said the third, "we'll be over by the cheese platter!"

They giggled like girls and walked away, giving him backwards glances. Hawke forced a smile and a wave before turning to Anders, who was doing his best not to burst into laughter.

"Oh shut up," Hawke growled.

"I said nothing, dearie," Anders managed.

Hawke grabbed his arm and dragged him to a table where he downed a glass of champagne, then another, and took a third. Anders shook his head, helping himself to a bit of fruit and a glass of sparkling cider.

"Champion."

It took Hawke a moment to realize he was being addressed, and he turned around belatedly. "Ah, Orsino," he said, shaking his hand. "We were just talking about you."

Orsino smiled lightly. "Only good things, I hope."

"So Meredith let you out of your cage for tonight?" Anders asked airily.

Orsino's smile faltered and he cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. We all have our places. I protect those under my wing-"

Anders couldn't help the noise of disbelief that escaped his lips.

"And the Champion protects his."

Anders bristled at the shrewd look Orsino gave him. He'd had a feeling since the night of the attack that Meredith knew what he was. And if she hadn't, then it was possible Carver or Cullen had told her. And Orsino clearly knew as well now. He barely listened to the conversation the elf had with Hawke, discussing the positives of having a mage on the outside, someone who was respected and not only that, but loved by the people. Fear was the tool Meredith used, but everyone loved a hero. The Warden had proved that, and it looked like the Champion would as well, mage or not. Orsino shook Hawke's hand again, nodded to Anders, and disappeared into the crowd. Hawke sighed.

"I believe he's doing the best he can."

"And what about her?" Anders asked, nodding at Grand Cleric Elthina who'd just come in, Sebastian at her side.

Hawke pursed his lips. "A complete and utter waste of space and air?" he guessed, sipping his champagne.

Anders looked at him. "Maker, I love you so much."

Hawke winked at him. "Let's go give our regards, hm?"

He begrudgingly followed Hawke through crowd, watching as Hawke took Elthina's hand and gently kissed her knuckles. He shook Sebastian's hand firmly before turning to Anders.

"And you both know my cons-"

"Friend," Anders cut in quickly, giving Hawke a look.

"Of course," Sebastian said, holding out his hand to Anders.

Anders wondered if pretentiousness was contagious, but he shook Sebastian's hand anyway. "Lovely to see you again," he lied easily.

"Likewise. I'm surprised I don't see you around more often, considering we seem to have a large number of mutual friends."

"Oh do we?" Anders asked, sipping his drink.

"I understand you're quite close to Hawke's friend, Fenris."

Anders choked mid-sip and turned away to avoiding spitting cider on the Grand Cleric. Hawke patted him hard on the back.

"They're uh, acquainted," Hawke covered. "Bit of animosity, you know, differing opinions."

Anders cleared his throat, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his mouth. "Yes. You could say that."

"Your Grace, I'm glad you're here," Hawke said, to avoid having to elaborate. "I've been meaning to ask you about your input on a new viscount."

Elthina smiled serenely. "The Chantry doesn't offer its opinion in such matters. The city will appoint a new leader when the time comes. It is unfortunate that Dumar had no surviving heir."

"It's unfortunate the Chantry couldn't prevent Saemus's death," Hawke added lightly.

Sebastian's eyes narrowed a bit and Anders could tell this was a familiar argument between them. 

Elthina spoke again before he could answer. "The Maker will watch over them both now. Kirkwall is simply blessed that you were there to prevent any more from heading to His side before their time." She touched Hawke's hand before taking Sebastian's forearm. "Excuse us, Champion."

Sebastian merely nodded, tight-lipped, to Hawke as he led Elthina away.

"That's one way to avoid conflict," Hawke observed. "Not that I'm particularly bothered. I've done my Champion-duty and hopefully that'll take care of the socializing for the ni-ght Commander Meredith. Lovely to see you."

Anders bristled and drained the rest of his drink, wishing he'd chosen something alcoholic. Meredith was out of her functional plate armor and wearing the ceremonial ones instead. The plate was shinier, looked much less able to take a hit. The red in the fabric was darker as well, more maroon than scarlet, and he could see no chain mail beneath the plate. Instead, she wore a wine-red tunic with long sleeves. It looked odd on her, like a costume. 

"Likewise," she said, though both her tone and Hawke's stated otherwise.

They shook hands and released just as quickly. Anders carefully avoided her gaze as she looked him over. Hawke drew Anders closer, arm around his waist.

"You remember my companion, who was there that evening, don't you, Knight-Commander?"

Anders felt himself blush just a bit. The arm around his waist was quite clear in its declaration, even if Hawke didn't care to elaborate. He wanted to ask Hawke what he thought he was doing. Even if Meredith hadn't seen Anders performing magic that night, it was a poor Templar that couldn't spot a mage. Meredith was a lot of things, but she was also cunning, observant.

"I do."

Hawke, perhaps deciding it was in his best interest not to press the issue, changed the subject instead to the rebuilding of Kirkwall. Anders noticed the hand did not leave his waist, and he leaned slightly against Hawke, feeling warm fingers gently massaging his hip. Hawke chuckled at something, one of his own jokes no doubt.

"Of course, if Tantervale wishes to send aid," Meredith said, "we will accept it. But it is not necessary. Kirkwall will stand on her own as she has done now for hundreds of years."

"Oh of course," Hawke agreed.

"But you're not of this city, are you, Champion?" she said, and Anders knew she knew the answer to that.

"Ferelden born and bred," Hawke confirmed. "But Kirkwall is starting to suit me."

"We will see."

"Knight-Commander!" Another voice. Another Templar.

Anders bristled, straightening a bit, and tried to pull away. Hawke kept him firmly in place.

"Knight-Captain," she returned easily.

Cullen was dressed similarly in his parade armor, and carried two slim flutes of sparkling cider. He handed Meredith one, who took it graciously. Cullen offered his hand to Hawke, who only released Anders long enough to shake it, then resumed his hold. Cullen's eyes strayed to Anders' hip, then back up to Hawke's eyes. He smiled efficaciously before his face went carefully blank.

"It's good to see you, Cullen," Hawke said breezily. "Oh, Orana's managed to duplicate a perfect Shepherd's Pie that'll make you believe you're right back at home. You need to come for supper."

Cullen looked nervously to Meredith, who gave only the slightest nod, then back to Hawke. "Well that sounds delightful. We'll have to get together soon then."

"It's a shame my brother couldn't make it," Hawke added.

Anders wondered if this was going to be his life now, listening to Hawke talk circles around city officials, standing around and wondering if he was going to be arrested at any moment. He drank the last sip of his cider and made to excuse himself quietly in the middle of their conversation. Hawke pulled him back.

"Hawke-"

And Hawke kissed him. It was just the wrong side of propriety for a gathering such as this, the briefest swipe of tongue against his lips. When Hawke released him finally, Anders was slightly out of breath, feeling light-headed.

"Hurry back," Hawke whispered, and nuzzled his cheek.

Anders turned, catching Meredith's stony glare. Cullen had turned pink and apparently found the floor extremely interesting. Anders nodded, and walked away, a little dazed.

_He's going to get himself in trouble. Or you._

Anders switched out his cider for champagne and ignored Justice's pull on his mind. He was almost giddy. It was a dangerous line they were walking, and it was like electricity in the air. They were still under Meredith's thumb, still would be watched closely, but Hawke was as close to a free mage Thedas had seen outside Tevinter. While people still feared him, they feared him because he was powerful, not because he was a mage. Of course some might worry that he would become an abomination, fall to demons and set the city on fire. But for now he was their protector, and Kirkwall did seem to have an awful lot of enemies.

He carefully wound his way around the crowd, some giving him looks, some whispering behind their hands as he passed. Perhaps they'd seen the kiss Hawke had given him, watched Hawke hold him protectively. It seemed he wouldn't exactly have the advantage of anonymity anymore. It could work to his advantage he thought, as he found himself amidst a group of people who wished to ask him more about Hawke's status as a mage.

The night would turn out to be a productive one after all. And if Anders managed to slip them a few pamphlets he'd written up earlier on mage rights, who was to say he wasn't just showing support for the Champion? And if there were whispers and agreements to meet later in the week with a wealthy magistrate whose favorite cousin was made Tranquil just a month ago, it could easily be passed off as a sympathy nightcap. Anders returned to Hawke well over an hour later, settling comfortably by his side as Hawke slipped his arm around his waist again.

And if Hawke kissed him hello in view of the most influential people in Kirkwall, who was Anders to argue?


End file.
